Traitor's Chase (17 page)

While the monks were still stunned by the theft of their text, they graciously agreed to house the travelers in the spare rooms—and provided them all with food and clean pallets of hay to sleep on. Immediately after dinner, the exhausted boys retired to one room, the girls to the other. Though Porthos complained about the hay smelling too “horsey,” he was asleep moments after lying down. Aramis and Athos didn't take much longer. However, Greg couldn't sleep.

There were so many perplexing questions. Greg had assumed all along that Dinicoeur had gone to Spain to retrieve the stone, not an army. So why had Philip III given him one? How did the Devil's Stone factor into all of this? Did Dinicoeur have half of it already? What had he meant when he said that the other half was under the king's nose? Even with all those questions tumbling through his mind, Greg knew something else was keeping him awake: Catherine. Though he knew it was important that he get some rest, he didn't
want
to sleep. Instead, he wanted to sneak into the next room to see if Catherine was still awake as well.

Something creaked in the hall outside. Athos immediately snapped awake at the sound, and within a second, he was on his feet, sword in hand, rushing to the door. He moved so quickly, he didn't even notice Greg was awake. The swordsman slipped out into the hall—and there was a sudden gasp of fear.

“Athos! You almost scared me to death!” It was Milady. She was whispering, but in the quiet monastery, the sound easily carried to Greg's ears.

Greg glanced at Porthos and Aramis. Both were still snoring soundly.

“I didn't mean to. I was merely on the alert for danger,” Athos hissed to Milady. “We are facing a treacherous enemy, you know. Why are you even sneaking about in the middle of the night?”

“I had to go to the bathroom,” Milady replied.

“Did you really, now?” Athos asked suspiciously.

“Yes, really,” Milady said coldly.

“And why were you creeping past our door?”

“Because it's on the way back from the bathroom. Why are you always so suspicious of me?”

“I'm not suspicious of you,” Athos said, as though offended.

“Of course you are,” Milady retorted. “I can't do or say a thing without you narrowing your eyes at me. You don't trust me at all, do you?”

There was a pause, as though Athos wasn't quite sure what to say. Then he asked, “Well, why should I trust you?”

“Oh, I don't know,” Milady replied. “Perhaps because I've done nothing but help you. The very first day we met, I could have handed you over to Valois, but instead I introduced you to the king. If I hadn't done that, you'd probably be rotting in prison instead of parading around as a Musketeer. And since then, I've helped you plenty of times. I am the one who informed the king of your brave exploits rescuing D'Artagnan's parents. And I risked life and limb to join you on this mission.”

“All right,” Athos admitted. “I admit, I do owe you much.”

“Then why do you dislike me so?” Milady asked.

“I don't …” Athos said.

“You do,” Milady responded.

“How would
you
know what I think?” Athos shot back. “You barely speak to me! You spend all your time with Aramis!”

There was a stunned silence—and then, to Greg's surprise, Milady began to laugh. “Is
that
what this is all about? You're jealous!”

“I am not!” Athos protested.

“Well, there's no need for that,” Milady giggled. “I don't like Aramis.”

“You don't?” Now there was distinctly hope in Athos's voice.

“Well, I do,” Milady admitted. “But not romantically. He's just … a friend. But you, I sense you have feelings for me. That's … good.”

There was another pause. When Athos spoke again, his voice was tinged with disbelief. “You mean … you have feelings for me, too?”

“Yes,” Milady admitted.

Greg glanced toward Aramis, worried that he'd overheard this, too, but the scribe was still sleeping peacefully.

“This is wonderful!” Athos cried. In his excitement, his voice echoed through the hall.

“Shhh,” Milady warned. “I agree with you and yet … We have a mission of great importance to carry out—and that requires we work as a team. We can't allow emotions to get in the way. We both know Aramis has feelings for me, too. What if he knew about us? He is not as strong as you, I fear. And we can't have jealousy tearing us apart.”

“No,” Athos agreed. “You're right.”

“And then, there is also my honor to think about. There are many who already question the propriety of a girl such as myself traveling in the company of four men.”

“I shall do whatever it takes to protect your honor,” Athos said.

“Then we must return to our rooms before anyone notices we're missing,” Milady told him.

“They won't,” Athos said. “They're all sound asleep.”

“And what if they wake, just as you did? Think of my honor, Athos.”

“I shall think of it all night, Milady.”

Greg heard the two of them returning to their rooms. He closed his eyes and pretended to be asleep. Athos slipped back through the door, humming softly to himself, unable to control his joy.

Greg, however, felt himself consumed by anxiety. He suspected that Milady had lied about her feelings for Athos; it was the best way to win the swordsman's loyalty. Aramis was already blind to her suspicious behavior. Now there would be no convincing Athos that Milady was up to no good—if Greg could even figure out what Milady's intentions were.

Perhaps even worse was that Milady had set Athos and Aramis on a collision course. Both were smitten with her and believed she felt the same way in return. The team was barely holding together as it was—and Greg feared that Milady was the perfect spark to blow everything apart.

SEVENTEEN

“D'A
RTAGNAN, WAKE UP
!”

Greg pried his eyes open and found Porthos looming over him. His fellow Musketeers were already dressed. Sunlight streamed through the window.

Greg sat up, groggy. It felt as though he had only just managed to fall asleep. “What's going on?”

“We have a lead on some horses,” Aramis told him. “But we must act quickly. Apparently, the seller has a rival offer.”

The Spaniards
, thought Greg. Wide awake now, he sprang to his feet and quickly pulled his clothes on. “How'd this come about?”

“A man came to the monastery early this morning, looking for us,” Athos explained. “He said he'd heard we were in the market for some horses and that he'd prefer to sell them to representatives of the king than foreigners.”

“A load of malarkey if you ask me,” Porthos groused. “He's just telling us that so he can drive up the price....”

“How do you know that?” Aramis asked.

“Because it's exactly what
I'd
do if I were in his shoes,” Porthos replied.

“Anyhow,” Athos went on, “we need to move quickly. And not just to get the horses. Time is of the essence.”

Greg fumbled his boots on, cinched his belt, grabbed his sword and hat, and followed the others out the door. Milady and Catherine were already waiting for them in the hall, fully dressed. Both looked beautifully put together, as though they had spent an hour getting ready.

“It's about time,” Milady told them.

“Don't blame us,” Porthos said. “Blame D'Artagnan. Waking him was like trying to rouse a stone.”

Catherine laughed at this, then gave Greg a shy smile.

Greg focused on Milady and Athos, however. They betrayed nothing of the previous night's encounter. In fact, they hid their emotions so well, Greg almost wondered if he'd dreamed the entire conversation.

“Where are these horses?” Greg asked.

“The Arena,” Aramis replied, “only a few blocks from here.”

Greg could see the Arena, looming above, from the moment he walked out the door. The sun was still low in the sky, but Arles was already bustling. The street was full of farmers streaming into the main plaza to set up for the market. The Musketeers were the only ones headed in the opposite direction.

As Greg dodged an oxcart laden with vegetables, he nearly stumbled over a curb. To his surprise, there was an actual sewer grating in it, a crosshatch of metal that looked as modern as the ones he'd seen in Queens. But there was something unusual about it besides the fact that it was in 1615 Arles. Cold air blew out of it with a moan, as though coming from far below.

“Is that the sewer?” Greg asked.

“No,” Aramis replied, looking down. “It's an air vent for the cryptoporticus.”

Everyone looked at him with confusion.

“Long ago, there used to be a Roman forum here,” Aramis explained. “Many of the buildings in it were quite large. The cryptoporticus was a series of arched tunnels designed to support their weight.”

“What happened to the buildings?” Athos asked.

“We're probably walking over their remains,” Aramis said. “Parts of this city have been knocked down twenty times over. And each time the inhabitants rebuilt, they did it right on top of the ruins.”

The Musketeers emerged into a wide plaza in front of the Arena. The horse trader stood in the shadow of one of the stadiums' arches, glancing up and down the street furtively. “Come, come!” He waved the Musketeers toward him urgently. “Before anyone sees you!”

The Musketeers and the girls did as ordered, ducking under the arch as well.

“Why the secrecy?” Athos asked. “These are
your
horses to sell, right?”

“Yes, they're mine.” The trader sounded offended. “But I heard the Spaniards were sniffing around town again this morning.” Quickly, he led them deeper into the Arena.

The building was a testament to the versatility of the archway. Arches were everywhere. The round outer wall of the Arena was two tiers of massive arches, one on top of the other. Inside, every passage was a series of arches. One passage ringed the entire building, like the tire on a wheel, while others headed from it toward the center, like spokes. The Musketeers headed down one of these spokes now, passing under the tiers of seats. To the sides, in the darkness, there were wooden pens, from inside which Greg heard the snorting and shuffling of large animals.

“Are those the horses?” he asked.

“No,” the trader replied. “Those are the bulls.”

“Bulls?” Catherine asked.

“Yes.” The trader grinned. “We may not have the elaborate gladiator competitions that the Romans did, but we still hold battles here.”

“You mean bullfights?” Greg asked.

“Why else would we have bulls?” the trader shot back.

From the blank looks on the others' faces, Greg realized he was the only one who even knew what a bullfight
was
. He was surprised to hear of them taking place here himself; he'd always associated them with Spain. But perhaps the culture here, this far south, was more Spanish than he'd realized.

He peered closer into one of the pens as he passed. A pair of angry eyes met his. The bull bellowed at him and slammed its horns into the side of the pen, making Greg jump.

The trader laughed. “I wouldn't get too close to them without a few years of training,” he cautioned. “The bulls of Arles are renowned for their nasty tempers.”

They reached the end of the passage. The trader unlatched a thick wooden gate and slid it open, allowing them all into the center of the Arena.

Greg was shocked; inside, it looked almost exactly like a modern-day stadium. The center was a large, wide oval, ringed by a wooden fence that was ten feet high and surrounded by several tiers of stone seats. The size was astonishing: It appeared large enough to hold the entire population of Arles as well as most of the surrounding countryside.

“Where are the horses?” Aramis asked.

Greg turned back to the trader, just in time to see the man slam the wooden gate shut behind them. He heard the latch being thrown on the other side, locking them in the center of the Arena.