Traitor's Chase

  Greg’s parents’ room was right next door to his. King Louis had graciously allowed them to move into the castle as well after their rescue from La Mort. The door currently hung open, revealing that Greg’s parents weren’t in. Greg was wondering where they’d gone when Aramis burst out of the Musketeers’ quarters.

  “D’Artagnan!” he crowed. “Just who I wanted to see! You’ll never believe what I learned today!”

  “Actually, can it wait?” Greg asked. “The king asked to see me.”

  “I’ll walk with you. It’s too exciting.” Aramis dropped in beside Greg and held up a tiny scrap of black fabric. It was two inches long, an inch wide, and torn on three sides—as though it had been ripped from a piece of clothing. “Remember this?”

  “Of course,” Greg said. “I found it.”

  The shred of fabric was the only clue the boys had to Dominic and Michel’s whereabouts. A few months earlier, Michel had forced Milady de Winter to deliver a letter to a messenger at an inn. Under questioning later, Milady claimed that she had no idea what was in the letter or where the messenger was from—only that he was a foreigner. Aramis had believed her—but then, Aramis was smitten with Milady. Athos hadn’t believed her at all—but then, Athos was also smitten with Milady, and he knew she liked Aramis more than she liked him.

  The day after Dominic had escaped from prison, Greg had asked Milady to take him to the inn. She had led all the Musketeers there on horseback. The inn only had a single room for guests, and there Greg had found the scrap of cloth snagged on a jagged splinter of wood that jutted from the wall. The innkeeper’s wife said it looked like it was from the clothes the mysterious man had worn.

  “It’s silk,” Aramis said proudly, as he and Greg followed King Louis’s messenger through the palace.

  “So?” Greg asked.

  Aramis frowned. “Is silk not a big deal in the future?”

  Greg thought about the clothes his family had owned. His mother had several silk dresses and his father probably had some silk ties as well. “I don’t think it’s cheap, but I don’t think it’s rare, either.”

  “Well, it’s rare here. And expensive. Silk comes all the way from the Far East, and only a few shipments reach Europe every year. What arrives tends to stay in the port cities—usually Venice or Barcelona. Only the tiniest amounts of silk ever make it to Paris.”

  Greg stopped walking and examined the scrap of silk more closely. “So whoever Milady met at the inn that night was no common messenger?”

  “Exactly. Anyone wearing such fancy clothes would most likely be the emissary representing the king of a foreign nation.”

  Greg’s heart thumped in his chest. France was surrounded by countries that were always on the verge of invading: England, Spain, the duchies of Italy, and the Holy Roman Empire, which controlled Germany, Switzerland, and Belgium. If Dominic had dealings with any of them, it was reason for concern. “Which one?”

  “I don’t know yet.” Aramis took the scrap of silk back and carefully tucked it away. “I need to figure out where this silk was made. I’ll bet a month’s wages that, wherever it is, Dominic and Michel have fled there.”

  “But we don’t know that for sure,” Greg said.

  “No,” Aramis admitted. “Still, this is the best lead we have.”

  “How long will it take to find out where the silk is from?”

  “A few days—if we’re lucky.”

  Greg silently cursed the backward age in which he was trapped. What would have taken five seconds to discover with a simple Wikipedia search could take forever to find out in the past. “There’s no way to do it any faster?” he asked. “With every day that goes by, Michel and Dominic are getting closer and closer to …”

  He caught himself at the last second, not wanting to mention the Devil’s Stone before the king’s messenger. Aramis recognized the worry in Greg’s eyes, though. “Allow us a moment?” he asked the messenger, then pulled Greg into a small alcove where they could speak in peace.

  “I know that finding the stone is of utmost importance to you,” Aramis whispered. “I’m doing everything I can to figure out where it is. Over the past two months, I’ve combed through every book, scroll, and parchment in Paris....”

  “And you haven’t found a single mention of it?” Greg asked. “There must be something somewhere. I mean, Michel had to learn about the stone somewhere, back when he was Dominic....”

  “Well,” Aramis said hesitantly, “I did find something a few days ago....”

  “And you didn’t tell me?” Greg couldn’t contain himself in his excitement.

  “It was merely an oblique reference,” Aramis whispered, signaling Greg to keep his voice down. “It didn’t even mention the Devil’s Stone by name.”

  “What was it?”

  “I found it in a scroll in the archives at Notre Dame. It was a transcript of the travels of a monk who stayed there two hundred years ago.” Until Greg had met him, Aramis himself had been a cleric at Notre Dame, responsible for transcribing texts from one language to another. The cathedral had the largest library in the city. “He mentioned hearing about a magic stone with incredible powers that was last seen in the White City of Emperor Constantine.”

  “What’s the White City of Emperor Constantine?” Greg asked.

  “I don’t know,” Aramis admitted. “And neither does anyone else I’ve talked to. There were several Emperor Constantines in the Roman era, but they all lived more than a thousand years ago....”

  Greg felt all the excitement drain from him.

  Aramis put a comforting hand on his arm. “Don’t despair,” he said. “We’ll find the stone. I promise you that.”

  Despite his reassuring tone, Greg still felt hollow inside. “We have to,” he said. “No offense, but I can’t stay in this time forever.”

  “I know,” Aramis told him. “I’m doing everything I can....”

  Before he could go on, the messenger coughed impatiently out in the hall. “Monsieur D’Artagnan. The king still waits for you.”

  Greg nodded, then told Aramis, “The sooner you can find out about that silk, the better. I’ll take any lead I can get.” He then followed the messenger down another hall to a set of large, imposing wooden doors flanked by two members of the King’s Guard.

  The messenger bowed subserviently before them. “At the king’s request, I have brought Monsieur D’Artagnan.”

  The guards dramatically opened the doors and Greg passed into the throne room.

  He had been inside it often—in fact, this was the very room he had landed in after jumping through time—and yet he never could get past how dull it was. It was so vast that the oil lamps barely made a dent in the darkness, though they did create a grimy slick of burnt oil on the walls and ceiling.

  Louis XIII was slumped in his throne. The king was only fourteen, like Greg. He’d taken the crown at the age of nine when his father was assassinated, and he still gave the impression of a young boy merely pretending to be king. His formal royal red gown, trimmed with ermine, swallowed him up.

  “D’Artagnan!” Louis said. “Thank goodness you’ve come....”

  “I’m sorry it took so long, Your Majesty,” Greg began. “I was practicing my sword-fighting skills all the way at the other end of—”

  “I don’t care about your tardiness. I care about my safety. I’ve just learned some terrifying news.” Louis sat upright, his eyes boring into Greg’s. “Someone in my family is plotting to kill me.”

  TWO

  “AGAIN?” GREG ASKED THE KING. HE WAS ALL TOO USED to these paranoid outbursts. Louis was always concerned that someone was after him. “Who wants you dead this time?”

  “My cousin Henry, the Prince of Condé,” Louis replied.

  “And how do you know he’s plotting against you?”

  “Why wouldn’t he be? Until I was born, he was next in line for the throne. It’s well known that he wishes I’d never been born.”

  Greg sighed. He’d give
n up trying to understand the convoluted chain of succession to the French throne. “Do you have any proof that he’s plotting?”

  “Of course I have proof!” Louis stuck his nose in the air, as though offended by the question. “The captain of the guard reports that he heard a rumor to such effect while on patrol today.”

  Greg waited for more information to come, but none did. “That’s all?”

  “What more do you need?”

  “Actual evidence of something would be nice. I hear rumors about plots to overthrow you all the time....”

  Louis turned even paler than usual. “You do? Do we need to increase the number of guards?”

  Greg held up his hands, signaling the king to calm down. “No. What I meant is, all the talk doesn’t mean anything. Your subjects love to gossip about palace intrigue, but they don’t really know what’s going on. The other day, I actually overheard someone on the street say that the Musketeers themselves were plotting against you.”

  Louis laughed. “The Musketeers! Plotting against me? You’re my only friends in the world!”

  “Exactly. It’s ridiculous.”

  Louis nodded. “I apologize for my foolishness, D’Artagnan. It’s just that being the king can be so … deadly.”

  “I understand.” Greg knew the king’s paranoia was actually well founded: there were plenty of people vying to wrest power from Louis—including his own mother, Marie de Medici, and, of course, Dominic Richelieu. Until the Musketeers had exposed Dominic, he had been one of Louis’s most trusted advisers.

  “I’m sorry to bother you with all this,” Louis said. “It’s just that … I don’t really have anyone else to talk to about these things.”

  “And I appreciate that, Your Majesty,” Greg told him. “Although, if you really need to discuss politics, Aramis knows much more about it than I do.”

  “Yes. I know he’s very smart....”

  “And Athos knows more about military matters....”

  “He does, but …”

  “And Porthos knows a lot more jokes than I do....”

  “True. In fact, he told me a very funny one the other day. But the thing is, D’Artagnan, you and I have much more in common.”

  Greg stared at the king, surprised. “We do?” The truth was, short of their ages, he didn’t feel that he had much in common with Louis at all. Greg had originally thought being a teenage king would be awesome, but the reality was that Louis had lived an extremely lonely life, completely removed from society. He could often be clingy, petulant, needy, or imperious—and Greg far preferred to spend his time with the Musketeers.

  “I’ve tried to figure out what it is exactly,” Louis was saying, “and I think it’s that we’re both not really like everyone else here. I mean, I’m the king. And you … you’re from so very far away.”

  You have no idea how far, Greg thought. In truth, Louis and everyone else (save for Aramis) thought he was from Artagnan, on the southern border of France near Spain. “I suppose you’re right,” he admitted.

  “It’s not easy being the king.” Louis sighed. “Everyone thinks it is, but it’s not.”

  It’s a lot easier than being a peasant, Greg thought. Louis had everything he could possibly need, while the average person his age worked from dawn until dusk, ate gruel three times a day, and slept on a flea-infested thatch of hay. But instead, Greg merely nodded agreement.

  “It’s not just the people plotting against me,” Louis went on. “It’s the pressure of running the country. Plus I’m in charge of the army. And then I have to marry Anne of Austria in a few months just so our empires can have peace. I’ve never even met her!”

  “Yeah,” Greg said empathetically. “I can see how being forced to marry someone who doesn’t even speak your language could be strange.”

  “Exactly!” Louis crowed. “Everyone else thinks I should be excited. But I’m not. I’m kind of … worried.”

  “I would be, too,” Greg said. “You’re only fourteen. People get married much later than that where I’m from.” Greg spoke before he could stop himself, knowing what the next question would be.

  “How late is that?” Louis asked.

  “Around twenty,” Greg lied. He’d once told Aramis that people in the future sometimes didn’t marry until they were over thirty, to which Aramis had laughed and responded that people who were over thirty were almost dead.

  “My goodness, how strange.” Louis was silent, staring out a window for a moment. Greg followed his gaze as a large bird flew by. Louis sat up, suddenly struck by a thought. “Have you ever tried falconry?”

  Greg looked at Louis, shaking his head. “No. I don’t even know what it is.”

  “Really? See, that’s what I’m talking about. You’re such an outsider. Falconry is a sport—you take a trained falcon out into the countryside and then let it kill things.”

  “And then what?”

  “That’s it.” Louis pursed his lips. “It’s supposed to be more fun than it sounds. Kings have been doing it for centuries.”

  “It certainly sounds fun,” said Greg, lying again. “But the thing is, I really need to spend my days working on my battle skills....”

  “Oh, pish. All work and no play makes D’Artagnan a dull boy. Porthos taught me that. You can certainly spare an afternoon. Let’s say tomorrow.”

  “Could the other Musketeers come, too? It’d be good to have them around, in case anything dangerous happens,” Greg said. “I mean, we’ll be out in the countryside, away from the castle and all its protections....”

  Louis went pale once again. “I hadn’t thought of that. I suppose you’re right. Fine, then. All of us. Falconry. Tomorrow afternoon!” The king gave a pleased laugh.

  Greg tried to plaster a smile on his face.

  The doors suddenly opened and a guard announced, “Milady de Winter to see you, Your Majesty.”

  Greg swung around to see Milady standing at the far end of the throne room. Even in the torchlit gloom, she was radiant. Her golden hair and her bright blue eyes gleamed as though the sun were shining directly on her. She curtsied and lowered her head. “I beg your pardon, Your Majesty, but I have some details of your wedding to discuss.”

  “Very well,” Louis said with a sigh. “I’ll see you tomorrow, D’Artagnan.”

  Greg knelt respectfully, then headed for the door. Milady came toward him. As the future handmaiden to Anne of Austria, Milady served as the go-between on all matters of the wedding. She smiled brightly at Greg.

  Greg went slightly weak in the knees. There was no denying that the girl was incredibly beautiful.

  “Good evening, Milady.” Greg tried to say it nonchalantly, but it came out sounding embarrassed.

  “Good evening, D’Artagnan.” To Greg’s surprise, Milady caught his arm as she passed and whispered, “I need to talk to you as well. I’ve come across something of Dominic Richelieu’s that I think must be important.”

  Greg paused and looked back at Milady, but she continued toward the king. Greg had no choice but to leave, wondering what Milady had found. Unfortunately, he wouldn’t be able to track her down and ask. Entering the maidens’ quarters at the palace was highly improper. Which meant he’d have to wait for Milady to find him again and explain herself.

  He expected he’d hear from her soon, however. There’d been something strange in Milady’s voice. For the first time since Greg had met her, Milady had sounded afraid.

  THREE

  GREG EXITED THE THRONE ROOM, SHAKEN BY HIS BRIEF encounter with Milady. He found himself alone in the palace; the messenger who had brought him there had doubtlessly been dispatched on another errand. Greg headed back toward his quarters, hoping at least one of the other Musketeers might be there. It would be nice to resume his conversation with Aramis, or to get a bit more practice in with Athos, or to have Porthos leaven his spirits with some jokes. As he passed his parents’ room, however, he heard his mother call out, “Gregory. Is that you?”

  Greg froze in mi
d-step.

  “Mom, for the hundredth time, don’t call me Gregory,” Greg hissed. He hurried into her room and closed the door. “Everyone here thinks my name is D’Artagnan.”

  “Don’t change the subject,” his mother said. “Do you have any idea how late it is? It’s eight-thirty at night!”

  “But my curfew at home was eleven-thirty.”

  “That was in the twenty-first century! This era is far more dangerous after dark.”

  Greg rolled his eyes and was about to reply when he heard his father fumbling with the oil lamp by his bed. “Oh, what I wouldn’t do for electricity!” Dad grumbled.

  “Do you have a match, Greg?” Mom asked absently.

  “D’Artagnan, Mom. And yes, I have two. But since they’re the only two matches in 1615, I’m saving them for emergencies.”

  The oil lamp clattered on the floor. “Curse it!” Dad snapped. “I have to go find a candle.” He hopped off his bed, then promptly slipped in the spilled oil and crashed to the floor.

  Greg failed to cover his laughter as his father stormed into the adjoining room.

  “Don’t laugh at your father,” Mom cautioned. “You know this hasn’t been easy on us.”

  “Me either, Mom.”

  “You weren’t the one who was captured and sentenced to death immediately upon arriving in this time. You weren’t the one who was held in the world’s most horrid, disease-ridden prison for three days....”

  “No, but I was the one who rescued you from there.”

  “I’m well aware of that. But it doesn’t make what we went through any less difficult.”

  “I know.” Greg lowered his eyes, feeling a bit ashamed. The truth was, as hard as things had been for him in 1615, they had been far worse for his parents. Their time inside the prison was traumatic. They had been treated horribly and forced to live in filth. Unaware that Greg was planning a rescue attempt—or that he was even alive—his mother had lost all hope. Even now, months later, she was still plagued by nightmares of her time in La Mort.

  “The point is, we’re worried about you,” his mother said. “This time is dangerous enough as it is—and being a Musketeer is just asking for trouble.”