Traitor's Chase (5 page)

“The falconry?” Milady said quickly. Before Greg could protest, she narrowed her eyes at him. “I'm surprised at how large a crowd has turned out,” she said, waving a hand at all the attendants gathered close by. “One almost can't have a private thought out here.”

Greg got the message: Keep his mouth shut for now. There were too many people around.

“What brings
you
here?” Athos asked sourly.

“The same thing as you, I'm sure,” Milady replied. “The king requested my presence here. Until the queen arrives, I serve his will.”

“Are you enjoying today's event?” Aramis asked.

“I'm afraid to say I find it a bit barbaric,” Milady admitted. “But it's nice to be out of the city. On days like this, the smell really gets to me.”

“Me, too,” Greg said, before he could stop himself. It was true. The Seine reeked every day, as it was full of human waste. But in summer, the heat exacerbated the stench, which would then permeate the entire city.

“Yes, it is nice to be out here,” Aramis put in. “Sometimes, you forget there's a whole world outside the city walls. And it's good for the king to see his subjects.” He waved to the land around them.

In the surrounding fields, work had come to a standstill. Even though the king was probably just a distant, well-dressed dot to all the farmers, he was still the king. It was possible that many of the subjects hadn't seen him for years, if ever. Most people simply stood in their fields, but a few had drawn closer and stood in the road, staring in awe at Louis, afraid to even set a toe on the royal hunting grounds for fear of being disrespectful. They were all farmers and their families, save for a group of dirt-streaked men tending an oxcart laden with massive white stones.

“Who are they?” Milady asked.

“Quarrymen,” Aramis replied.

“And what's that they've got with them?” Milady wondered.

“Probably a future piece of the Louvre,” Aramis said. “It's limestone. Almost anything of significance in the city is built of it—the bridges, the palace, the cathedrals … even Notre Dame. There must be a mine for it in those woods. You can hear the hammers.”

Greg cocked his head and listened. Sure enough, from the direction of the woods he could hear the clink of metal against rock.

Milady heard it as well and turned to Aramis, impressed. “You're right, as usual. And I'm such a fool. I've lived in Paris my whole life and it's never once occurred to me to ask where all the stone came from!”

Greg frowned slightly. He was quite sure that Milady was no fool. In fact, he'd have bet that she knew exactly where the limestone came from and was merely buttering Aramis up.

A royal falconer approached Louis with yet another bird—an impressive beast, eighteen inches tall, with brown feathers and talons sharp enough to pierce metal. With its leather blindfold on, it sat so still it might have been carved from stone.

Aramis and Milady fell quiet out of respect. Everyone—even Porthos—sat up in their saddles, eyes riveted on the king, excited for another hunt.

Everyone except Greg. The excitement of watching a bird have its blindfold removed and take flight had died out fourteen flights before. Now he found his attention wandering to the far side of the field, near the woods, where the doves would be released....

Something moved just beyond the tree line.

At first Greg thought his eyes were playing tricks on him, that it was merely a mirage caused by the heat rising off the field. But then he heard the distant twang of a taut string and the telltale whoosh of something slicing the air.

“Louis! Get down!” Greg yelled. He spurred his horse toward the king's.

Athos moved even faster. He'd recognized the sound of the incoming arrow in a fraction of a second—and in another fraction, he'd sprung from his horse to Louis's. He broadsided the king, and both boys tumbled to the ground while the falcon screeched and took flight. The arrow sailed past with a whoosh and embedded itself in the ground thirty feet beyond.

“What on earth …?” Louis sputtered, aghast to have been knocked from his horse.

Athos was already on his feet, staring in the direction the arrow had come from. “Assassin!” he cried, springing back atop his steed. “Don't let him escape!”

His horse charged across the field. Greg and the other Musketeers spurred their horses as well and quickly fell in behind him. As they raced across the grass, Greg saw a figure duck back into the forest, a shadow moving quickly through the trees.

The Musketeers reached the woods, but the forest was too thick for the horses to pass through, so the boys quickly dismounted and followed on foot. They dashed through the trees, ducking branches and leaping roots in desperate pursuit of their quarry.

As they ran, however, Greg felt an idea nagging at him. Something was wrong, although everything had happened so quickly, he couldn't determine what it was. He replayed spotting the assassin, Athos's tackling the king, the flight of the arrow …

Up ahead, in the woods, the would-be killer paused and looked back at them before continuing on. It was a mere split second, but it struck Greg as odd, as though the assassin wanted to make sure they were following.

And suddenly, Greg knew.

He thought back to the arrow the assassin had fired. It had landed in the ground behind where Athos had been, not the king. Which meant it hadn't been meant for the king at all.

It had been meant for Athos.

“Athos! Stop!” Greg cried. “It's a trap!”

The urgency in his voice froze the others in their tracks. They spun toward him, understanding on Aramis's face, confusion on the others'.

And then the attack came.

FIVE

T
HERE WERE FOUR OF THEM, ARMED WITH BOWS AND
arrows, shrouded in black. Greg spun on his heel and changed direction before they could fire. The other Musketeers, alerted by his warning, did the same—although there was no time to coordinate. Everyone went a different direction at once.

The bows twanged and the arrows screamed through the air. Greg heard one whistle past his head and thunk into a tree. Then the attackers shouted in a language he didn't understand and gave chase.

Greg could hear one of the assassins coming through the woods behind him, but he didn't dare look back. He ran with all his might, fighting his way through the underbrush, not knowing where he was going, simply moving as fast as he could.

And suddenly he caught a glimpse of someone off to the side, watching from the cover of the trees. A burly, muscular man with a thick mustache and hatred in his eyes.

René Valois
.

Greg risked another glance in that direction, but Valois had vanished. Still, Greg was sure it had been Dinicoeur's henchman. He veered in the opposite direction, not wanting to go anywhere near Valois. Ahead, the woods brightened. Greg crashed through the underbrush and found himself in a large, man-made clearing. Three grimy, muscled men gaped at him as he burst from the trees, waving and yelling,
“Arrêtez!”
Stop!

At first, Greg thought they were yelling at his pursuer, telling him to back off and leave the poor kid he was chasing alone. But then Greg realized they were telling
him
to stop, pointing at something hidden in the tall grass. But it was too late; he was already right on top of it....

The limestone mine—a big, gaping hole, plunging deep into the earth. It was four feet across with a ladder jutting out of it. Greg skidded to a stop, teetered on the brink—and then toppled over the edge.

Darkness swallowed him. He lashed out as he fell, grabbing for anything he could. His right hand caught something and he held tight, jerking to a stop so hard he thought his arm might rip loose from the socket. His sword slipped from its sheath and plunged into the shaft, clattering on the ground below.

Greg had caught a rung of the miners' ladder, and it splintered and cracked from his sudden weight. Going down was dark and quite likely a dead end, but he was already so far from the top, there was no other choice. He quickly scrambled down the ladder, even though his shoulder was screaming with pain.

A shadow suddenly blotted out what little light there was above. The assassin was coming after him, grabbing the ladder and sliding down quickly, faster than Greg could climb.

Greg had no choice but to jump and pray the bottom of the shaft wasn't too far below. There was a sickening moment as he hung in the air—but then his feet slammed into the ground and he tumbled. He caught a glimpse of his sword, illuminated by the single shaft of sunlight, and snatched it up just before the assassin thudded to earth.

The man was huge, well over a foot taller than Greg. Instead of a mere rapier, he carried a scimitar big enough to slice Greg's head off with one shot. Greg knew there was no way he could beat the guy in a fight.

So he ran, plunging deeper into the darkness. The mine tunnels forked again and again; Greg ducked one way, then the other. The vinegar-like scent of limestone made his eyes water, but he kept on going, hoping he could lose his pursuer. Unfortunately, his footsteps echoed loudly in the otherwise silent passage, giving away the path he'd chosen every time. He knew he had to try something different.

After rounding a corner, Greg stopped running and flattened himself against the wall. The moment his pursuer came flying around the turn, Greg bolted back the way he'd come. The assassin was so big he couldn't change direction quite as quickly as Greg, but he still was faster than Greg had anticipated. As Greg charged back through the mine, he could hear the big man thundering behind him, only a few yards back. His strength didn't seem to be flagging at all, while Greg felt like he was cruising on fumes.

Ahead, Greg saw a shaft of light beaming down into the mine again, so bright after his time in the darkness that it was almost blinding. It wasn't until he stumbled toward it that he discovered it wasn't the same shaft he'd come down; he'd gotten turned around in the mine somehow. This one was much larger, ten feet across, designed for taking the huge chunks of limestone out through it. A wooden pallet of stone was currently being winched up toward the opening above.

Another rickety ladder extended toward the surface. Greg scrambled up it, knowing he had to move fast if he hoped to escape through the opening before the pallet blocked it. But his energy was almost spent; it took every last drop of adrenaline he had to climb.

He'd just skirted past the pallet and was nearly to the top when the ladder trembled violently. In one terrifying instant, Greg realized he'd made a mistake. The man below didn't
have
to climb up after him; he could catch Greg by simply taking out the ladder. Greg lunged for the lip of earth above him just as the ladder collapsed below. He caught the grassy edge with his fingertips and clung there for a moment. He had a glimpse of the intricate block and tackle system arranged over the hole—and then his fingers slipped from the edge and he dropped back into the mine.

He tumbled backward through the air, but the fall wasn't nearly as far as he expected. He quickly slammed into stone, and it took him a second to realize he'd landed on the pallet, not the ground below. However, his sudden weight on the pallet overwhelmed the block and tackle that supported it. Above him, a pulley ripped free of the support beam and the rope went slack. Greg dropped again, only this time he was riding the pallet. Halfway down, the rope caught again as the other pulleys held, and the entire pallet jerked to a stop with such force that it broke apart. Greg clung to the rope as the pallet disintegrated beneath him, scattering its load of stone.

Below, Greg heard a terrified scream, followed by a sickening wet crunch. When he finally gathered the nerve to look down, he saw the assassin at the base of the shaft, squashed beneath a massive block of limestone.

Greg's stomach churned, and he quickly looked away.

“Sacre bleu!”
Porthos's voice echoed through the mine-shaft. Greg looked up to see his fellow Musketeer perched on the rim above. “Now that's what I call knocking your enemy flat!”

Greg was surprised his friend could joke at a time like this, but Porthos's humor tempered the shock of having been involved in the death of another person, however deserving.