Traitor's Chase (13 page)

Greg returned to work himself, pleased that Catherine was even willing to be in his presence. But after a minute of this, he couldn't hold his silence any longer. “How are
you
doing?” he asked.

Catherine looked to him, curious. “What do you mean?”

“On the trip,” Greg said. “Given the assassins and the danger and all. How are you doing with it?”

“Oh. Well …” Catherine hesitated before answering. “Not that well, I suppose. It's quite stressful. I've never done anything like this. After all, I've only trained to be a handmaiden, not a Musketeer.”

“It's not as though we've really trained for this either,” Greg admitted.

“Well, it seems you've certainly trained for everything else,” Catherine told him. “I've seen you practicing.”

“You have?” Greg's heart sped up at this, which completely surprised him.

“Of course,” Catherine said. “You're hard to miss, given that you spend several hours a day in the palace courtyard poking at things with your sword.”

“Oh. Right. That makes sense.” Greg racked his brain for something else to ask Catherine. “How long have you been working at the palace?”

“For as long as I can remember. My parents are both servants there.”

“And so you had to become one?”

Catherine looked at Greg curiously. “Of course. How does it work in Artagnan with your servants?”

Greg almost said “What servants?” before he caught himself. He realized what Catherine's line of thought must be: Only someone wealthy could afford to travel to Paris. Thus, Greg must have money—and servants. “We, uh … we give them a choice as to whether to work for us or not,” he said.

“A choice?” Catherine seemed confused by the very concept. “But what else would they do?”

“Er … whatever they want,” Greg said. “It's something new we're working on in Artagnan. We call it ‘free will.'”

“Sounds dangerous,” Catherine said.

Greg popped a few of the berries he'd collected into his mouth. “Haven't you ever thought about being something besides a servant?” he asked.

Catherine studied him cautiously before answering, as though this might be a trap. “I suppose, from time to time, I might have.”

“And what might that be?”

“Well, being the queen doesn't seem too bad.”

“Of course not. But, aside from royalty …”

“A soldier, I suppose.”

Greg coughed on a berry. “A soldier? Really?”

Catherine's stare hardened. “You don't think a woman could be a soldier?”

“No! I mean yes,” Greg stammered. “I mean, she could. It just seems, well … dangerous for a woman.”

“So when you say your female servants can exercise free will, you mean only as long as they choose something safe, like being milkmaids?”

“No! I was just caught by surprise. That a girl as beautiful as you would want to be a soldier.” Greg bit his lip, but it was too late. The word “beautiful” had slipped out … and Catherine had heard it.

She seemed taken aback, unsure how to respond. Her cheeks flushed pink. But to Greg's relief, she pretended as though the word had never been spoken. “Why not?” she asked.

“Because it never seemed like much fun to me. Spending most of your time training—or on watch. The only time it's really exciting is when somebody tries to kill you.”

“Maybe so. But then, as a member of the upper class, you're probably used to finding excitement other ways. For the rest of us, there's not much.”

“Is that why you came on this journey?” Greg asked.

“I came because Milady requested that I accompany her,” Catherine replied. “But should we encounter some excitement along the way, I suppose that would be all right.”

“Why did Milady request
you
?” Greg was surprised how accusatory the question came out—but it had been on his mind ever since he'd first laid eyes on Catherine.

“I have no idea,” Catherine said. “I suppose she heard I was a good and loyal servant.”

For the first time in the entire conversation, Greg got the feeling Catherine was lying to him. “She didn't know you? I thought she was in charge of your training.”

“No. The headmistress, who used to be chief handmaiden to Louis's mother, oversees my training, although Milady
will
be my superior once Queen Anne arrives—or
if
she arrives, I suppose. In truth, I have only recently been selected to be a handmaiden. Before this, I was merely a cleaning girl in the quarters for the King's Guard.”

“Hold on,” Greg said. “You worked for Dominic Richelieu?”

“I work for the crown,” Catherine replied. “Although I did clean Monsieur Richelieu's quarters. At least, I did until you ran him off.”

Greg stared at Catherine for a while, trying to process this information. It couldn't have been a coincidence that, out of all the people Milady could have chosen to accompany her on this mission, she'd picked the very girl who'd worked for Richelieu. “Why didn't you ever mention this?” he asked.

“I thought Milady had already told you,” Catherine said. “I did say that I had been asked to clean out his offices....”

“But I never knew you worked so close to him. Did you ever encounter Michel Dinicoeur there?”

Catherine nodded. “Twice. He visited only when he thought Richelieu was alone, but people tend to overlook the servants sometimes.”

“Are you the one who told Milady about him?”

Catherine considered that carefully. “Perhaps. I'm not sure. Why?”

Greg didn't answer right away. He wasn't even sure why he thought it was important, but somehow it seemed that it was. Instead, he asked the question that was burning inside him. “Did you, by any chance, ever hear Michel mention something called the Devil's Stone?”

Catherine's eyes widened in surprise, then narrowed in suspicion. “How did you know about that?”

Greg's heart leaped with excitement. “What did you hear?”

Catherine responded by putting a finger to her lips and hushing him.

Something rustled in the bushes.

“It's probably just a squirrel,” Greg whispered.

And then the thieves attacked.

THIRTEEN

T
HERE WERE THREE OF THEM, THEY WERE ALL VERY BIG, AND
they moved with surprising speed. Within seconds, they had overwhelmed Greg, knocking him to the ground and wrenching his hands behind his back. The moment he tried to call for help, one crammed a rag in his mouth. Greg felt the cool steel of a knife blade pressed against his neck. “You'll stay still if you know what's good for you,” his attacker hissed.

Greg obediently stopped struggling. He doubted he could have done anything anyhow. He'd foolishly left his sword on the barge.

The knife blade stayed against his flesh. “That's right,” the man said. “And don't try calling to your friends, either. This is Prince Condé's territory. We don't take kindly to representatives of the king.”

Greg wondered if these men were the ones who'd been watching the boat the other night. They appeared to be brothers; all had the same cruel look. The oldest, apparently the leader, had a scar angling across his nose from his left eye to the right side of his mouth. The next in line was the biggest, with broad shoulders and bulging muscles. The youngest was also the dimmest; he was slightly cross-eyed and the mere act of thinking seemed to cause him distress. Their clothing was poorly made and haphazardly stitched together. And they reeked as though they'd never bathed in their lives; Greg was surprised he hadn't been able to smell them from a mile away.

The thieves had little interest in Greg other than what valuables he might be carrying. However, they regarded Catherine as though she was a prize herself. While the middle one pinned her against a tree, the one with the scar stepped back to admire her.

“Look at her!” he crowed. “I've never seen clothes like these. What are you, darling, a princess?”

Catherine didn't respond. She just glared at the thieves, who weren't fazed a bit. “Hoo-hoo!” the scarred one laughed. “If you want to give us the silent treatment, that's fine by us.”

Greg seethed with rage—although he was angrier with himself than the thieves. He'd made a terrible mistake by letting his guard down, and now Catherine was paying the price. He felt frightened and useless, unable to do anything but hope his friends came to their rescue.

His face was pressed into the ground, so he could barely see anything. He felt the muscular middle brother slice through his belt, then slide it off his body and remove the small pouch that held all his belongings.

“What's he got in there?” the scarred one demanded.

“Not much,” his brother replied. “Just a few coins.” He suddenly grew intrigued. “And
this
…”

“What on earth is that?” Greg heard the scarred one ask.

“I've never seen anything like it,” the middle brother said. He jabbed Greg in the ribs with his boot. “Hey there,” he demanded. “What is this thing?”

Greg lifted his head from the dirt and saw what the thief held in his grubby hands: Greg's cell phone.

Greg's heart skipped a beat. He couldn't lose his phone! He'd never get back to the future. But before panic could set in, he realized the phone might be able to get him out of this predicament.

“It's magic,” he said.

The brothers—and Catherine—squinted at him skeptically, then at the phone. Greg knew it looked like nothing they'd ever seen before.

“What's it do?” the scarred one demanded.

“I have to show you,” Greg said.

“Do I look like an idiot to you?” the scarred one snapped. “No way. Tell me how it works.”

“I can't,” Greg said. “It only works for me.”

The thieves stepped back and conferred for a moment. Greg could hear snippets of their conversation: “It couldn't be magic. It's so small.” “It
might
. It's very shiny.” “What's it made of, silver?” In the end, curiosity won out, and he was released.

The middle brother jabbed the tip of his knife into Catherine's side, making her squeal. “Try anything funny and the princess here gets hurt,” he warned.

Greg stood, brushed the dirt from his face, and reached for the phone.

The younger brother was suddenly behind him, wrapping a thick arm around his neck.

“Further incentive for you to not try anything funny,” the scarred one warned. “My brother there can snap your neck in an instant, if I say so.”

“Understood,” Greg gasped. He could barely breathe with the arm pressed against his throat. His hands were trembling. He knew there was a decent chance that, if all didn't go the way he'd hoped right now, he'd end up dead. But then, if he did nothing, the thieves would probably kill him anyhow.

The scarred brother cautiously handed him the phone as the younger brother tightened his arm around Greg's neck.

Greg pressed the switch to turn the phone on. Even the background warm-up photo was enough to make the thieves gasp. It was just a picture Greg had snapped of a park in Queens near his apartment. But then, neither the thieves—nor Catherine—had ever seen a photograph before.

“Think that's impressive?” Greg asked. “You haven't seen
anything
yet.” He flipped on the camera and aimed the phone at the scarred one. “Say cheese.”

“Why?” the thief asked.

Greg snapped the picture, then brought it up on the screen and turned it to face the others.

The thieves recoiled in shock. Even Catherine went wide eyed.

“Is that
me
?” the scarred one demanded.

“Yes,” Greg said.

“How did you get in that little box?” the middle brother asked, a bit frightened.