by Stuart Gibbs
The girl burst out laughing. “You’re asking me to help you sneak into the quarters of His Majesty King Louis, knowing that if I get caught, I might be killed as well?”
“Er . . .” Greg blinked and shrugged, trying to smile. He couldn’t quite muster the same charm as Porthos and Athos, though—and he knew it.
“Your bravado is incredible,” the girl said.
“Thank you,” Greg replied.
“That wasn’t a compliment,” said the girl with a sneer.
“Oh.” Greg’s ears burned.
“I’ve already taken a tremendous risk by not turning you over to those soldiers,” she continued. “Why should I do any more?”
“Because if you don’t help us, we’ll have to force your hand,” Athos said, whipping out his sword.
The queen’s handmaiden suddenly spun in a blur of motion. A knife flew out of the folds of her gown and shot across the room—pinning Athos’s sleeve to the wall less than an inch below his wrist. His sword clattered to the floor. Greg gasped in astonishment.
Athos simply chuckled. “What type of handmaiden is trained to use a blade like that?”
“One charged with protecting the queen’s life.” The girl hiked her skirt and produced another knife from her stocking. “Try a silly stunt again and the next one slits your throat.”
Aramis stepped forward and raised both hands, positioning himself between the girl and Athos. “Mademoiselle, I apologize for Athos’s rash behavior. All of us have risked our lives for this mission. We haven’t had much rest, and our actions sometimes speak before our thoughts. You asked why you should help us. The only answer I can give is that it is the right thing to do. And the only reward we can offer is the pride in a good deed, and our eternal gratitude.”
The girl stared at him for a long time. Finally she spoke to Athos. “Now that is how to negotiate with a woman. You would do well to learn from your friend.”
“So . . . you’ll take us to the king?” Greg asked, unable to contain his excitement.
“I’ll try,” said the girl. “I can’t promise anything.”
“Might I ask your name, mademoiselle?” Aramis inquired in a quiet voice.
“Milady. Milady de Winter.”
“Thank you for your help, Milady de Winter.” Aramis bowed respectfully.
She smiled again. “And might I ask your name, monsieur?”
“Aramis.”
“It is my pleasure, Aramis.”
“And I am Athos, at your service!” Athos cried, wrenching the knife from his sleeve.
“And I am Lord Porthos of Tremblay!” Porthos winked at some of the girls.
Greg stepped forward. “And I am—”
“D’Artagnan, yes, I know,” Milady muttered impatiently, her attention still glued to Aramis. “We’ll need to move fast. Stay right behind me and keep quiet. If you do as I say, maybe we’ll all stay alive.” She tucked the second knife back into her stocking and beckoned the foursome through the door by which she’d first entered.
Greg soon found himself scurrying to keep up. Milady whisked them through a labyrinth of narrow, torch-lit corridors. They barreled past an astonishing number of servants along the way—chefs, attendants, gardeners, stablemen, seamstresses, charwomen—all of whom gaped in surprise. Greg wondered if any of them would dash off to inform Valois and his men that there were strangers in the palace. But at least they all seemed as intimidated by Milady as he was.
Athos allowed Milady and Aramis to get a few paces ahead. “I’m not sure we should trust this girl,” he whispered. “There’s something about her I don’t like.”
“Would it be the fact that she likes Aramis and not you?” Porthos asked, amused.
Athos flushed but said nothing and continued on. Greg hurried after him, his pulse racing. Porthos seemed to think this was all a game, but what if Athos was right? What if Milady was leading them into a trap? Why should they trust her? She’d lied very convincingly to Valois, after all.
Ahead of them, at the intersection of two halls, Milady froze, listening intently to distant voices. “The guards . . . they’re coming this way!” she gasped. She whirled and pointed at the vaulted door behind Greg. “Hide in there! I’ll distract them. Quickly!”
Greg didn’t hesitate. He yanked the door open, the other three boys piling in behind him. Porthos slammed the door. Greg squinted, blinded by a sudden glare of afternoon sunlight.
“Might I ask what you’re doing here?” a boy’s reedy voice demanded.
The silhouette of a frail figure stood before a massive window. As Greg’s vision adjusted, he noticed that the boy’s features were strange: his brown eyes were set oddly close together, and his nose was so pointy that it reminded Greg of a beak. In a city full of people in desperate need of a dentist, he had the worst teeth Greg had seen so far. To top it off, the boy wore a ridiculously frilly shirt and tight velvet leggings . . . and if he hadn’t opened his mouth, his cascading hair would have pegged him for a girl.
“This is . . . um, Lord Vincennes of Bordeaux,” Greg mumbled, pointing to Porthos. “We have some business with His Majesty King Louis. If you could—”
“You are incredibly ignorant,” the boy snapped.
For a moment, Greg was annoyed. But coughs from the other boys caught his attention. To his surprise, they were all down on one knee, their heads bowed.
“I’d shut my mouth if I were you,” Porthos warned under his breath. “That is His Majesty King Louis XIII.”
Chapter Thirteen
ONCE AGAIN, GREG FOUND HIMSELF FROZEN STIFF. FORTUNATELY, a violent tug on his shirt snapped the spell, and he dropped to a knee beside the others and bowed his head. “That’s the king?!” he whispered. “How old is he?”
“Your age. Fourteen,” Aramis whispered back.
“He’s been king since he was nine, you fool,” Athos hissed. “Does the news not reach Artagnan?”
“Don’t answer that,” Porthos told Greg. “And don’t make a move until you’re spoken to, or you’ll get us all killed.”
In spite of the warning, Greg couldn’t help but steal a quick peek at the boy king, who stared back at them in unnerving silence. Greg bowed his head again. The room was surprisingly formal for a teenage boy, but then, Louis XIII was surprisingly formal himself. The furniture was all extremely ornate: wooden cabinets with elaborate inlaid designs, gilded mirrors, couches and lounges that were beautiful to look at but appeared uncomfortable to sit on. Thick draperies framed massive windows that should have looked out onto the palace courtyard—but now revealed only scaffolding. Giant portraits of Louis’s ancestors hung on the walls—Greg thought he noticed one or two that were still in the modern Louvre—each in a wooden frame big enough to build a rowboat out of.
Greg kept expecting Milady to arrive and sort everything out with the king, and it seemed to him that the other boys did, too. But as the seconds ticked by, Porthos finally couldn’t stand the silence any longer. He lifted his head and addressed the king. “Your Majesty, I would like to apologize for my friend’s ignorance. He has only recently arrived in Paris from Artagnan.”
“Ah. That explains your strange accent.” Louis clasped his delicate hands together. Greg noticed that his nails were bright and shiny, in stark contrast to his teeth. “I’ve never been to that part of my empire. What’s it like?”
Greg swallowed. He didn’t know a thing about Artagnan, other than what he’d gleaned from Aramis. Instant wireless access to Wikipedia was four centuries away. “It’s quite beautiful,” he choked out.
“Ah, yes. So I’ve heard.” Louis sounded pleased. “What is your name, boy?”
“My friends call me D’Artagnan.”
“As a nickname, I suppose. But what is your family name?”
“Pamplemousse.” It was the first French word that popped into Greg’s head. But he immediately regretted his choice. Pamplemousse meant “grapefruit.”
Porthos snickered beside him.
Louis knitted h
is brow. “That’s an odd name. I thought I knew all the names of my nobles.”
“Well, Your Highness,” Porthos interrupted before Greg could dig himself into a deeper hole. “Artagnan is a far-flung region on the very edge of your empire. It is closer to Madrid than Paris.”
“That’s true,” Louis concurred. “I can’t be expected to know everyone. What is your business here, Pamplemousse?”
Porthos suppressed a laugh.
“I have come to petition for your help,” Greg replied.
Louis looked perturbed. “My help? For what?”
“My parents have been falsely accused of treason and are sentenced to be hung two days from now.”
Louis blinked and tapped his foot. He straightened his back, as if trying to act more kingly. But his eyebrows were tightly knit. It occurred to Greg that up until this point, Louis had merely been attempting to portray an image of royalty, because that was what was expected of him. But now, suddenly confronted with a life-or-death issue, the teenager in him showed through.
“Two people were captured in this palace two nights ago,” he said finally. “I was told they were here to assassinate me.”
“They weren’t, Your Majesty,” Greg replied sincerely.
Louis crossed the room slowly. “I was also told there was a boy with them who got away. I assume that was you?”
Greg considered lying but couldn’t figure out how to spin the story fast enough. “Yes. But I promise you, my parents and I were framed. And now my parents are locked in La Mort Triste. We never had any intention to—”
“Then what were your intentions?” Louis demanded.
“A man stole something that belonged to my family,” Greg explained. He swallowed hard. “A piece of jewelry. We followed him here to get it—”
“You came all the way from Artagnan just to pursue a thief?” Louis interrupted. “And then infiltrated my palace as well?”
“Uh . . . yes,” Greg admitted.
“I do not consort with thieves,” Louis snapped, sounding insulted. “What is the name of this man?”
“Michel Dinicoeur,” Greg replied.
“There is no one here by that name,” said the king.
Finally Porthos raised his head. “Is it possible you just don’t know of him, Your Highness? Hundreds of people serve Your Majesty at the palace.”
Louis thought for a moment, and then nodded. “Perhaps you’re right. Let’s get to the bottom of this, shall we?” He reached into his pocket and jingled a small brass bell.
A gray-haired servant who was old enough to be a grandfather immediately emerged from a side door. “Yes, Your Majesty . . . ?” He trailed off in surprise upon seeing the boys.
Louis beckoned him closer and whispered in his ear. The servant nodded obediently and hurried back out of the room. Louis flopped down on one of the couches, leaving them all kneeling on the floor. “That explains why you first broke into my palace. Why have you returned?”
“To appeal to you, Your Highness,” Greg answered, hoping he sounded subservient enough.
“Why come to me?” Louis asked. “Why not go to those in charge of La Mort?”
Greg shook his head. “We tried. We met with a boy named Jacques Boule. But he said that you—Your Majesty—were the only person he would listen to.”
“Really?” Louis seemed to be at a loss. “I don’t know enough about the situation to render any judgment.”
“With all due respect, Your Highness, you seem to have judged D’Artagnan’s character already,” Aramis pointed out. “If you felt threatened by him, you would have called for your soldiers, not a servant.”
The king sniffed. It seemed this hadn’t even occurred to him. “You’re right, I suppose. None of you appear dangerous, that’s for certain.”
“We don’t mean you any harm, Your Majesty,” Aramis stated. “We only seek your help, if you would bestow your grace upon us.”
“Yes, yes. But I don’t believe his story—not entirely.” Louis swung his gaze back to Greg. “I’ve never heard of his family, never heard of this Michel Dinicoeur. . . .”
“I can vouch for D’Artagnan’s honesty,” Porthos said.
For the first time, the king smiled. “But can anyone vouch for yours, Porthos?” he asked, chuckling.
Porthos’s jaw dropped.
“Yes, I know who you are,” Louis said, waving his delicate hands dismissively. “You’ve been to a few parties here.”
“But,” Porthos began. “But there are always so many revelers—”
“And yet so very few who make such a scene,” the king said. “You destroyed a family portrait last time you were here.”
Porthos tried to match the king’s smile. “That was an accident—”
“My cousin says you stole his horse,” Louis countered.
“I won that from him fair and square!” Porthos shouted. He quickly bowed his head, his face reddening.
Louis laughed again. “You have quite a reputation for caring about nothing but having a good time.”
“I care about many things,” Porthos said defensively. He peeked up at the king again. “But nobility is entitled to some fun, yes?”
“I’m not,” Louis answered softly. He sagged in his seat.
The boys exchanged a quick, puzzled glance.
“You’re not, Your Majesty?” Athos asked.
“Not really,” Louis admitted.
“But . . . you’re the king,” Greg ventured. “You can do whatever you want. You, more than anyone, can have some fun.”
Louis sighed tiredly, sounding much older than his years. “Fun? Let me tell you about my life. When I was nine, my father was assassinated right in front of me. I’ve had to run the entire country ever since. The Germans, the English, the Spanish, and the Italians are constantly threatening war. There are about twenty noble factions within France at odds with one another as well. My mother and my half brother are planning separate coups to overthrow me. And I’m being forced to marry a girl I’ve never met—whose language I don’t even speak—solely for political reasons. Does that sound like fun to you?”
Greg shook his head, embarrassed. “I’m very sorry,” he murmured, and meant it.
“With all due respect, Your Majesty,” Porthos chimed in, “I’d be happy to offer my services to rectify the situation. As you said, I’m quite good at having fun. We could sneak you out of here one night, attend a masquerade ball. . . .”
Louis shook his head sadly. Greg was stunned: He actually felt bad for the king of France. The old servant entered again, approached Louis, and spoke softly in his ear. Louis waved him back toward the door and then fixed his gaze on Greg.
“Now let’s see what we can do about your parents.”
“You mean . . . You think they’re innocent?” Greg asked hopefully.
Louis lifted his shoulders and sat up straight. “I think we should at least investigate the possibility of their innocence.”
Greg breathed out a sigh. For the first time since being sucked into the past, it seemed as if he might actually have a chance at saving Mom and Dad. “Thank you, Your Highness. Thank you for understanding.”
“It is nothing.” Louis snapped his fingers. “I’ve asked the head of my guard, Dominic Richelieu, to join us.”
The servant opened the door, allowing Richelieu into the room.
Greg turned. His throat caught. All the warmth in his body evaporated.
He knew Richelieu. Only when Greg had met the man, he’d called himself Michel Dinicoeur.
Chapter Fourteen
GREG COULDN’T BELIEVE HIS EYES.
It wasn’t simply the surprise that Dinicoeur was also Richelieu. Dinicoeur also looked different. It was obviously the same man, and yet . . . As impossible as it was, he seemed younger somehow. His face was smoother, his hair longer, and there was something else strange about him, though Greg was too stunned by his sudden arrival to figure out what it was. . . .
Dinicoeur was surprised to see Gr
eg in the king’s chambers as well—though he seemed even more startled by the presence of Athos, Porthos, and Aramis. It seemed to Greg that something like recognition flashed in Dinicoeur’s eyes. A cruel smile crossed his face, as though he were almost pleased by the turn of circumstance. “Guards!” he yelled.
Four soldiers flooded through the door at his command.
“Arrest these boys at once,” Dinicoeur ordered. “Take them directly to La Mort.”
The soldiers turned to the king for verification.
Louis looked to Dinicoeur, baffled.
“He is a traitor!” Dinicoeur exploded, thrusting a finger at Greg. “Nothing he says can be trusted!”
Greg knew then that they had to escape. Whoever Dinicoeur was or was pretending to be, he had the king’s trust. “The drapes,” he whispered to his friends.
The other boys instantly understood. They whirled around and yanked on the window coverings. The huge swaths of fabric, big as the sails of a ship, tore free from the wall. The soldiers scattered—but not quickly enough. The drapes billowed over them, plunging them into darkness. Porthos grabbed a vase off its decorative pedestal and then heaved it through the window, shattering the glass with a deafening crash.
“I can pay for that,” he told Louis.
The king didn’t seem to hear. He’d crouched on the floor, covering his ears and squeezing his eyes shut. Porthos dove out the window and onto the scaffolding that surrounded the palace—trailed by Athos and Aramis. As Greg followed, Dinicoeur caught him by the arm. With his right hand. Even though his life was at stake, Greg couldn’t help but stare at it in shock. When Greg had shaken that hand in the twenty-first century, it was prosthetic. Now it was flesh and blood.
Dinicoeur smiled at Greg’s confusion. He clenched Greg’s throat in his other hand and squeezed. “Perhaps I’ll spare you the agony of La Mort and simply end your life now,” he hissed.
In response, Greg kicked Dinicoeur in the groin.
Dinicoeur gasped and toppled back into the king’s chamber, falling on top of the heaving sea of drapes. Greg charged after his friends down the planks of the scaffolding, leaping over mounds of mortar and piles of stone. Porthos, Aramis, and Athos were well ahead of him. In a panic, Greg glanced over his shoulder. Nuts. The guards had freed themselves and were scrambling out the window.
