Double Cross (2 page)

“I don't believe that,” Greg said. “If we all put our heads together and work as a team . . .”

“We're not a team,” Athos said angrily. “Not anymore. Barring a miracle, tomorrow at dawn, we are going to die.”

TWO

A
T DUSK, THE GUARDS CAME TO RETURN THE PRISONERS
to their cells.

After eight hours of being hunched over in the pillory, Greg was thrilled to stand up straight and stretch his back, but the relief was short-lived. The guards clamped heavy chains around their ankles, wrists, and necks, then linked all the prisoners together front to back. They had to walk through a gauntlet of townspeople, who jeered, spat, and kicked them as they passed. “Behold the enemies of Condé!” the guards told the crowd. “This is what happens to those who will not support him!”

To the west, the sun dropped below the lip of the cliff, sinking into the swamp below. Greg wondered if it was the last sunset he'd ever see.

No,
he told himself. Even if Athos and the others were resigned to their fate, he couldn't be. There was too much at stake. The Prince of Condé couldn't be allowed to overthrow King Louis. Neither Milady nor Dinicoeur could be allowed to obtain the entire Devil's Stone. If any of those things happened, the history of the world—the events that had led to the future Greg was from—would be irrevocably altered. Greg had no idea how to prevent any of that from happening, but he had to try. And the first step was figuring out how to escape. There was no chance that anyone was coming to help them; no one even knew where they were. If the Musketeers were going to get out of Les Baux, they'd have to do it themselves.

Keep your eyes open,
Greg thought.
Don't let anything escape your attention. Somehow, somewhere, there is a way out of here.

He lifted his head as high as he could with the chains hanging from his neck and tried to ignore the taunts and blows of the townsfolk and concentrate on his surroundings.

They were heading uphill toward the castle, which loomed above the center of town and, among other things, housed the dungeon where they would spend the night. Although he loathed the place, Greg had to admit the castle was rather amazing. Some of the lower floors inside were belowground—carved directly into the mountain itself. Entire rooms and stairwells hadn't been built so much as sculpted. The upper floors had been made with the excavated stone, so that the castle appeared to be an extension of the rock it sat on. It perched at the very edge of the mesa, its southern wall flush with the cliff below.

The castle was much newer and far better constructed than the Louvre palace, with tall turrets and ramparts and large windows. Every facet was bright and clean. It was almost a relief to pass from the dirty, noisy outside tumult into the clean, quiet entry chamber. And the entry paled in comparison to what came next: the banquet hall.

As they made their way into the hall, Greg noticed that it was designed to impress guests, to signal that the lord of Les Baux was a man of great standing. It was built on the southern side of the castle, so that its large windows offered impressive views of the lord's lands. Anyone standing before them had a commanding view of the surrounding countryside for thirty miles—although there was a vertiginous drop to the swamp at the bottom of the cliff. The room was huge, with a banquet table large enough to seat fifty people, flanked at either end by huge fireplaces big enough to roast entire cattle in. A vaulted ceiling soared four stories above, and a grand stone staircase swept around the northern edge of the room to a wide interior mezzanine on the east.

Most impressive of all, however, was the chandelier. It was the largest Greg had ever seen, a huge wheel of wood suspended by a long, thick rope that threaded through an iron ring in the center of the ceiling and then wound around a winch on the main floor. Nearly a thousand candles sat on the wheel, and when lit, they were spectacular. In 1615, once the sun went down, most rooms—even those in the Louvre—were generally dim and full of shadows. But with all the candles lit, the banquet hall was as bright as day.

The chandelier, t
hought Greg. As he stared up at it, an idea began to form in his mind. . . .

“Ah, hello, my dear prisoners!”

Greg shifted his gaze to the mezzanine, where Lord Contingnac, ruler of Les Baux, now looked down on them. He was a rotund man with a big black beard and a wide belly, who always seemed to take great joy in making others suffer.

“It looks like your hangings are going to be quite the event tomorrow!” Contingnac crowed smugly. “The whole town is very excited to see them!”

Athos glared at the lord. “It should be your neck that hangs tomorrow for treason, not ours,” he said.

Contingnac laughed. “Oh, that's good. Say something like that tomorrow on the gallows. The people will then love it even more when you die!” He paraded down the grand staircase, his eyes fixed on the prisoners. “It is
your
king and all his followers who have committed treason,” he said. “Louis is not the rightful ruler of France. Rather than take the throne, he should have abdicated to Condé.”

“Will our deaths tomorrow be an example of the way Condé will rule France?” Aramis asked pointedly. “Does he plan to torture and kill all who don't agree with him? Anyone who has to frighten the populace into following him isn't a leader. He's a despot. I would rather die for a good king than kneel to a tyrant.”

Contingnac's smile faded. “Condé has no need to frighten anyone,” he snarled. “My people love him.”

“They fear him,” Porthos said. “Condé is nothing but a power-hungry madman. Long live Louis! Long live the king!”

Aramis and Athos took up the cry. Before Greg knew it, he and Catherine were shouting as well. After three days of being treated so poorly, the moment of defiance was an incredible release. Their voices echoed through the banquet hall and out into the town. And for a few brief moments, Greg felt alive and free again.

Then the guards were on them. A fist slammed into Greg's stomach, quieting him and doubling him over. To his side, Aramis was thrown to the floor. Another guard backhanded Catherine so hard that she fell. Athos and Porthos continued to make a stand, however, fending off the guards despite their chains. Throughout, they continued chanting. “Long live the king! Long live the king!”

“Silence, you fools!” roared Contingnac. “Your precious king will not live much longer than any of you. Soon, Condé's army will breach the walls of Paris, the prince and his betrothed will take the throne, and the glory of France will finally be restored!”

To Greg's surprise, these words did to Athos what all the guards couldn't: They took the fight out of him. His defiance suddenly faded, replaced by shock and sorrow, and Contingnac's men quickly took him down.

Several pairs of hands grabbed Greg roughly and dragged him to his feet. The guards shoved him and the other prisoners out of the banquet hall, through the kitchen, and down another, less grand set of stairs. These wound downward into the rooms that had been chiseled directly into the mountain. Here were the granaries, armories, and storage rooms. Unlike the bright white rooms above, these rooms were dark and tomblike, filled with dripping water, bats, and rats. They were places deemed unfit for any humans to spend much time in.

Except prisoners.

The dungeon was down here as well. The cells weren't really rooms so much as cramped spaces that had been dug into the rock. There were three of them, each less than four feet high. The guards unlocked the chains from their prisoners, then forced Porthos and Athos into the first cell, Catherine into the second, and Aramis and Greg into the third. Inside, the floor and walls were so rough-hewn, the space was little better than a cave. There was barely enough room for both boys—and no comfortable place to sit or lie down. There was only a thin slit in the cliff side to allow in fresh air and sunlight, and now that the sun had set, there was no light but the guards' torches. When the thick wooden door slammed, that disappeared as well—and Greg and Aramis were plunged into darkness.

The stone walls and door were so thick, it was almost impossible to hear anything outside—although Greg thought he could detect the faint sound of Catherine crying.

He felt like crying himself. It wasn't merely that death waited for him the next morning. It was the fact that even if he did miraculously escape, the chances of him ever setting things right and getting back to his own time seemed almost impossible.

To start with, he didn't merely need both halves of the Devil's Stone to get home. He also needed his phone—and Milady had that. When Greg had traveled to the past, the Devil's Stone had turned a painting of the Louvre in 1615 into a portal to that time. So to get back, he needed a photo from the twenty-first century—and the only photos he had were on his phone. But Milady had taken it, thinking it was some powerful magical object from the future.

Everything of importance to Greg had been taken from him. He'd been stripped of the rest of his belongings upon being taken prisoner. The only thing he'd managed to hold on to were his matches.

He had only two left, wrapped in a small piece of oilskin to keep them dry. He'd palmed them when Condé's men had frisked him for weapons. Since matches wouldn't be invented for another two hundred fifty years, they were quite valuable—and indeed, they'd come in handy before. Greg wouldn't have been able to rescue his parents from prison without them. He had secreted the remaining two in a fold of his clothes again, expecting that they might be useful at some point—although they certainly weren't of any use now. This small cell was freezing, but there was nothing in it to burn for warmth.

Greg tried to focus on escape. He thought about everything he had just experienced, everything he had just seen and heard. Somewhere in there, he thought, there was useful information. Clues to aid in their escape. He simply had to put them all together.

But he came up blank. His mind kept turning to all the problems that awaited him outside Les Baux. He had so many enemies to confront. Richelieu and Dinicoeur, seeking the Devil's Stone and the power that came with it. Milady and Condé, plotting to oust the king. And Condé had an entire army at his disposal. Greg had overheard Contingnac boast of it. Condé had been building the army for months near the German border. It was now advancing on Paris from the east, threatening to overthrow King Louis and alter the course of history forever.

It seemed so daunting. How could Greg and his friends possibly triumph over all that? Even Athos, who was never cowed by anything, had given up hope.

Greg realized that despite all the odds against him, the most disheartening thing was how upset his friends were with him. The Musketeers had become the best friends he'd ever had. And now . . .

“Athos still seems angry at me,” Greg said.

“Yes,” Aramis agreed.

“But I told him the truth, just like he wanted me to.”

“I know, but I don't think this is about the truth. It's about trust. Loyalty is extremely important to Athos. I fear I made a terrible mistake when I advised you not to tell him the truth about yourself. Now that he feels you betrayed him, it may take a very long time to earn his trust back.”

“But I didn't betray him nearly as badly as Milady did,” Greg argued.

“That's true,” Aramis admitted. “And my guess is, what Milady did to him stings far worse than what you did. But since you're here, you're bearing the brunt of his resentment.”

Greg nodded sadly. “What do you think it was that Contingnac said that upset Athos so much?” he asked. “It wasn't news that Condé intends to take Paris.”

“No, but it
was
news that Condé has a fiancée.” In the darkness, Aramis sounded like he'd lost all hope as well, and suddenly, Greg understood why.

“Milady?” he asked. “She's engaged to Condé?”

“Who else could it be?” Aramis sighed heavily. “And she actually made me think she cared for me. I was such a fool.”

“No, you weren't,” Greg began.

“I
was
,” Aramis countered. “Athos and I both were. Milady tricked us, played us off each other, made us blind to what she was really up to. She worked us like puppets. Got us to engineer the fall of Paris. . . .”

“Paris hasn't fallen,” Greg said. “Not yet.”

“But it will soon,” Aramis said. “If the king paid any attention to the message I sent—at Milady's urging—then the French army has left the city, leaving it vulnerable to attack.”

“It made sense to send that message,” Greg said. “The Spanish army was attacking from the south, and Dominic knew of secret entrances into Paris. The fact that we repelled it was a miracle.”

“Even so, she used us. And all along, she hasn't just been working to give Condé the throne. She's going to have a throne herself—as queen.” Aramis spat. “I'll bet she doesn't love Condé, either. He's just another dupe she's tricked into servicing her rise to power. And now she's after the Devil's Stone as well. If she gets that
and
France, she'll be the most powerful leader the world has seen since Julius Caesar.”