Traitor's Chase (22 page)

A sentry stepped forward, crossbow at the ready, looking them over suspiciously. “You are French?” he said.

“No,” Porthos said, shaking his head violently. “Not anymore. Down with King Louis!” He spat on the ground.

This
, the Spanish understood. They burst into laughter, then cheered Porthos's actions.

Greg and Aramis did the same, and the Spanish cheered them as well. The sentries collected their weapons and ushered them into the camp, although Greg noticed the Spanish were still keeping a careful eye on all of them.

The sentries led them through the outermost circle of tents, which seemed to be reserved for basic infantry, given that it was the most vulnerable to attack. Lots of soldiers didn't even have tents; they simply slept on the ground, huddled together for warmth. Greg caught a glimpse of one of the oxcarts laden with gunpowder. The oxen had been freed from it and grazed among the tents.

Then Greg noticed the large tent in the center of the camp. It was far away, lit from within with flickering yellow light, as though there were a fire inside. As Greg stared at it, a chill went through him.
Michel Dinicoeur is in there
, he thought, although he couldn't say how he knew for sure.

“Make way!” someone shouted. “Make way, you fools!”

Greg tensed. Although he hadn't heard that voice in months, he knew it all too well.
Valois
.

The Spanish sentries leading the boys froze. Valois came charging through the camp, followed by three of the biggest men Greg had ever seen, all armed to the teeth. Valois suddenly paused, then spun to face the sentries.

Greg, Porthos, and Aramis lowered their heads, hoping that without their Musketeers uniforms on, they would blend into the sea of other boys and men in the army. To their relief, Valois didn't notice them. He was too focused on the largest sentry.

“You,” Valois said. “How well can you handle yourself in battle?”

“Very well,” the sentry replied.

“Then come with us,” Valois said. “I have a job for you. I am organizing a hunting party at the direct order of General Richelieu.”

The sentry obediently fell in with the others, and Valois led them away without a glance back.

Greg realized he'd been holding his breath the entire time, afraid to so much as even exhale in Valois's presence.

The remaining sentries led him and the others on to a large tent that signified it belonged to someone of importance. One sentry called out a welcome, and then an imperious-looking soldier emerged. He was an older man, around forty, and he also had the fleur-de-lis on his tunic, although his was marred by a dark black scorch mark. He cast an intrigued eye at the Musketeers, conversed briefly with the sentries in Spanish, then spoke to the Musketeers in French. “Why do you wish to serve King Philip?”

“Because he couldn't possibly be more terrible than King Louis,” Porthos replied. “We were soldiers in the French army, but we were treated worse than dogs. We understand King Philip is a wise man who understands the value of good warriors.”

The Frenchman came closer, examining the boys in the firelight. “My name is Gérard. I served in the French army myself—under King Henry. You do not appear like warriors to me. One of you is wounded....” His eyes flicked to Aramis.

“In battle, I assure you,” Porthos replied. “The king sent our regiment to confront the forces of the Prince of Condé, then abandoned us. My friend here was wounded serving his king honorably, but the king did not honor us in return. That is why we stand before you now.”

Gérard nodded, then shifted his gaze to Greg. “And this one?” he asked. “He barely looks as though he can lift a sword, yet alone wield it in battle.”

“Then test him,” Porthos said.

Greg turned to Porthos, surprised, but his fellow Musketeer just smiled confidently.

Gérard selected a sword and tossed it to Greg. No sooner had Greg caught it than the older soldier attacked. Greg parried and responded. They went back and forth, swords clanging in the firelight. Gérard was an adept swordsman, but Greg held his own, defending himself against every challenge and aggressively counterattacking.

After two minutes, Gérard suddenly stepped away, sheathed his sword, and smiled at Greg. “I stand corrected. You can fight as well as anyone under my command. Perhaps even better. What is your name, boy?”

“My friends call me D'Artagnan.”

Gérard's smile grew even larger. “You're from Artagnan? No wonder you hate the king. I'm from the Roussillon, not far from you!”

And just like that, the Musketeers were welcomed into the Spanish army. Gérard ordered the sentries to return the boys' weapons. Then he ushered the boys into his tent and demanded food and water be brought for them.

While the boys ate, Gérard traded war stories with them. Porthos had to make all theirs up, but thankfully he was convincing. Aramis and Greg simply nodded in agreement to whatever he said while stuffing their faces full of food. Eventually, in the midst of spinning a tale of how they'd been betrayed by the king's army in battle at Avignon, Porthos cleverly found a way to pump Gérard for information. “There were only two men we respected in the entire army, and both of them quit in protest against the king's rule. They were named René Valois and Dominic Richelieu.”

Gérard snapped up in his seat. “Valois and Richelieu? They are with us!”

The boys feigned surprise. “No!” Porthos said. “They are allied with the Spanish?”

“Even better,” Gérard said. “Richelieu
commands
the Spanish. That's his tent in the center of the camp!”

Aramis couldn't help but break his silence. “Why on earth did Philip ever give Richelieu a command? Isn't his daughter due to marry Louis soon?”

Gérard laughed, as though Aramis were terribly naive. “Yes, she is. But that was merely a political move to gain access to the Netherlands through France. Philip was never pleased that he had to sacrifice Anne to Louis. So when Dominic Richelieu arrived in his court with a plan to topple France instead, Philip jumped at it. As you know, Dominic controlled the King's Guard. Thus, he knows its weaknesses—as well as those of Paris itself—very well.”

“And what does Richelieu ask for in return?” Aramis asked.

“What else? Wealth and power,” Gérard replied. “I suspect Philip will set him up nicely, once France falls.”

“And what of Richelieu's twin brother?” Porthos asked. “Is he involved in this campaign?”

“Twin brother?” Gérard asked curiously. “I know of no such man.”

Greg and the others exchanged a glance. So Michel was once again keeping himself hidden—or was posing as Richelieu while his brother stayed hidden.

“I suppose he must not be involved,” Porthos said quickly.

“But this other man you mentioned, Valois,” Gérard went on. “He arrived in camp just this night. I hear he went directly to Richelieu's quarters. I haven't met him yet, but I understand he is a great warrior, extremely gifted with a bow and arrow.”

“Did he arrive alone?” Aramis asked.

“No,” Gérard said. “There was a Spaniard with him. They had been on some sort of mission in the countryside until now.”

Aramis screwed up his face in concern. Greg knew he was worried that there had been no mention of Milady. “That's all? He was with no one else?”

Gérard shrugged. “He might have been. It's a big camp. I don't hear everything.” He suddenly yawned, then grew embarrassed. “Well, it's late, and I'm sure you're even more tired than I am. I'd be honored if you would join up with my brigade.”

“The honor would be ours,” Porthos said humbly.

Gérard broke into a pleased smile. “Then it's settled! My officers will make room for you in their tent.” He clapped his hands, and his underlings immediately sprang to attention. Gérard ordered that the boys be shown to the officers' quarters. Porthos graciously thanked him for his hospitality, they all swore allegiance to King Philip once more, and then the boys were off.

The officers' quarters weren't that impressive, merely a moderate-size tent inside which the officers slept on the ground. Most of them were already sound asleep.

“Looks wonderful,” Porthos lied to the soldiers who'd led them there. “However, before turning in, I think my friends and I might take a stroll about the camp, just to make sure the defenses are up to snuff.”

The soldiers, who probably couldn't have cared less whether Gérard's new recruits went to bed or not, nodded agreement and shuffled off. Suddenly, the Musketeers were alone and unguarded in the midst of the enemy camp.

Porthos grinned, pleased with himself, as usual, then led them toward the powder wagon they'd seen earlier.

Greg had been concerned that they wouldn't blend in, given their lack of uniforms, but now that he was in the camp, he discovered that almost no one had a uniform. The army was mostly a hodgepodge of men recruited from all walks of life, most of whom were serving—and sleeping—in the clothes they'd worn to enlist.

The Musketeers moved quietly through the camp, eventually reaching the powder cart. No one was guarding it—although there was a gauntlet of sleeping soldiers and sentries they'd have to pass to get it on the road.

“There's no way we'll get this out of here without being seen,” Greg whispered. “It's one thing to walk into the camp and join up. But it's a whole other to waltz right out again with two tons of gunpowder.”

“Have a little faith,” Porthos said, unfazed. “And while you're at it, see if you can find me some horses.”

“It's an oxcart,” Greg protested.

“Only when you have oxen pulling it. And oxen are dreadfully slow,” Porthos said. “When we go, we'll need to go fast. So find me some horses.”

Greg reluctantly nodded agreement and set off into the camp with Aramis. They found two horses relatively quickly—impressive, muscular steeds tied up outside the tent of some officers. While Greg untied them, Aramis found a few handfuls of sweet grass, which the horses loved. They eagerly allowed themselves to be led away in return for more.

“Only two?” Porthos asked when they got back. “We'll need at least three to pull this cart!”

“You might have mentioned that before,” Greg snapped, but he set off to find another horse while the others hitched up the cart.

It took him longer to find one this time. There were lots of other horses, but most were in such sorry shape that Greg doubted they could pull a baby carriage, let alone their share of the powder wagon. The horses that
were
in good shape were understandably well protected. The sky was already starting to turn pink with the sunrise by the time Greg happened upon a suitable horse that miraculously wasn't tied to
anything
. In fact, it appeared to have freed itself by gnawing through its tether; a short hank of rope dangled from its reins.

Greg did what Aramis had done; he found some sweet grass and offered it to the horse, which gulped it down and whinnied happily. “That's a good boy,” Greg said, petting its nose. The horse nuzzled him, nice and friendly. Greg grabbed a bit more grass and the horse let him lead it away.

Greg had only taken a few steps before he realized where he was. He'd been so focused on finding a horse, he hadn't been paying attention to where he was in the camp. But now he saw that he'd come dangerously close to the center. The huge tent he'd noticed before was only twenty feet away from him.

Greg noticed a makeshift hitching post next to it. There was a chewed-off length of rope dangling from it, one that matched the piece currently in Greg's hand.

Greg gulped. He was stealing the horse of his mortal enemy.

And then, the flap of the tent flew open and Michel Dinicoeur emerged.

TWENTY-FOUR

G
REG INSTANTLY KNEW IT WAS
M
ICHEL AND NOT
D
OMINIC
. The madman had a glove on the stump of his right arm, hiding the fact that his hand was missing. He didn't see Greg right away—although he did seem to be on the alert. He was dressed in full military regalia—but what really caught Greg's eye was the object that dangled from Michel's neck: a dark piece of stone strung on a silver chain.