GREG STRAINED HIS EARS TO CATCH EVEN A WISP OF WHAT Richelieu and Milady were saying. But their voices were too hushed. He could only wait. . . .
The conversation lasted less than two minutes. At the end, Richelieu handed Milady a piece of paper that she tucked beneath her cloak. Greg thought he caught a glimpse of a formal wax seal. She stood and headed for the door.
“Follow her!” Athos hissed. “I’ll stay on Richelieu.”
“You don’t want to follow her?” Greg asked, baffled.
“Richelieu knows you and wants you dead. And I would guess that he’s far more dangerous than she is. I can handle him. I doubt you can.”
That made sense—and besides, there was no time to debate. Greg scurried after Milady, careful to maintain a distance of at least half a block between them. She moved furtively, glancing over her shoulder and pausing every now and then, as if to listen for footsteps. Greg froze when she did, falling into a rhythm. Milady crossed the Seine by way of the Île de la Cité—avoiding the lively Pont Neuf—then quickly cut through the southern part of Paris toward a low-walled compound.
As far as Greg could tell from his distant vantage point, it was almost like a city within a city. He even thought he heard the cluck of chickens and bray of horses on the other side, as if there were a farm inside. Milady cased the street one last time to make sure she was alone, then knocked on a small wooden door. Someone opened it immediately, as though they’d been waiting for her. Once the door closed, Greg heard a bolt slide and click on the other side, locking it tight.
So . . . he wouldn’t be following her that way. Fortunately, the stone was rough enough that, with his rock-climbing skills, he could scale it. Besides, the walls didn’t seem built for defense so much as to provide solitude. It wasn’t a difficult climb, maybe twenty feet or so. In less than half a minute, Greg reached the top and peered into the compound.
As he’d surmised, there was a small farm: pigsties, chicken coops, stables, and goat pens—as well as a large vegetable garden and several fruit trees. On the far side, right next to the city wall, was a plain white tower, virtually unornamented except for a few stained-glass windows. Though that might not mean it was a church. Greg knew that stained glass was a lot easier to make than clear glass, and a lot sturdier as well. Surprisingly, the compound had its own gate in the city wall itself, one that didn’t appear to be controlled by the king’s soldiers.
At that moment, its portcullis was being winched open by someone in a cloak.
At first, Greg assumed it was Milady, but when he caught a glimpse of beard, he realized that he was looking at an actual monk. Aha. This place was probably a monastery. He inched up farther, preparing to swing his legs over the top of the wall, when the clatter of hooves caught his attention. A horse charged out of the stable, a cloaked figure astride it. Greg couldn’t see the face, but given that slight build, he was sure it had to be Milady. The horse thundered across the compound, through the gate, and into the countryside beyond.
The monk quickly winched the portcullis shut and locked it.
Greg slithered back down the wall, dejected. There was no way he could have followed Milady without a horse. Still, he’d failed. He had a zillion unanswered questions. What was Milady doing for Richelieu? Who were these monks? And if Richelieu was up to no good, why were they working with him? Hopefully Athos was having better luck.
All at once, a very disturbing thought occurred to Greg.
He had no idea how to get in touch with Athos.
They’d never considered that they might split up, so they’d never made a plan about what to do if that happened. Back in modern times, Greg never gave much thought to getting in touch with people because everyone had a phone.
So think like someone in 1615, Greg told himself. Athos would eventually head back out to Porthos’s family estate, right? Of course he would. Except the idea of making that long journey now—late at night, exhausted and alone—without Athos to protect him against thieves or wild animals or whatever else . . . no way. Notre Dame was far closer. Greg could see the towers less than a mile away. Better to take his chances and sneak back into Aramis’s garret, and then return to Porthos’s residence at sunrise.
As Greg cut back through the city, his gloomy mood grew worse. It was the first time he’d been alone since he’d met Aramis. In addition to being scared, he was overcome with guilt. His parents were still locked in La Mort, having no idea what had happened to him or that he was planning to rescue them. All they knew was that they were condemned to death in less than two days’ time. Time was running out.
Worst of all, Greg couldn’t help but doubt himself. He’d been lucky to make allies—he couldn’t discount that—but of all the boys, he was by far the weakest link. Aramis had the brains. Athos had the skills. Porthos had guile and confidence. Greg brought nothing to the table. He was clueless about how to navigate medieval France without the help of the others. If anything, he was probably a threat to the mission of rescuing his parents.
By the time he reached Notre Dame, he felt useless and miserable.
The wall around the cathedral garden was even easier to scale than the wall of the monastery. Once inside, Greg remembered how to get to Aramis’s room, though he proceeded slowly. The ancient wooden floorboards threatened to squeak with every step. How could he explain himself if he woke the clergy who lived here? He finally made it up to the garret—and, sagging, pushed open the door. In the moonlight, he could see his original clothes still folded neatly where he’d left them. . . .
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw something move.
Greg whirled around as his attacker sprang from the shadows. Reflexively, he crouched: shoulder cocked, feet braced. Something hard thumped Greg on the head. He winced in pain as he and his assailant tumbled to the floor. Greg rolled away and hopped to his feet, slightly dizzy. He was about to pounce when his opponent slipped into a shaft of moonlight. “Aramis?” Greg gasped.
“D’Artagnan? Is that you?” Aramis dropped the thick book he’d used as a weapon, embarrassed. “What are you doing here?”
“It was too late to go back to Porthos’s place,” Greg explained. His adrenaline had spiked and his heart was still racing. “Why aren’t you there?”
“Porthos and I were working on the plan, but we realized we needed to take another look at La Mort.” Aramis stared at the floor. “And once we’d ridden all the way back this way, I thought I ought to come back here for the night. I need to show myself around here tomorrow so the priests don’t start wondering what I’m up to.”
Greg’s breathing began to slow. “Then why’d you attack me?”
Aramis looked up. “No one ever comes up here. And no one in the cathedral is ever up this late. So when I heard you coming up the stairs, I thought it was an intruder. We’ve earned our share of enemies lately.” He pursed his lips. “Where’s Athos?”
“We had to split up. He was following Richelieu and I—”
“Wait!” Aramis interrupted, his eyes widening in confusion. “Athos was following Richelieu?”
“Yes. Why? That was the plan, wasn’t it?”
Aramis began to pace the room. “Yes, but . . . When was Athos following him?”
“Well, we both were, to begin with. We saw him leave the Louvre about two hours after the sun went down—”
“No, that’s not possible.”
“Why not?”
Aramis stopped pacing and met Greg’s gaze. “Because I saw Richelieu at La Mort at the exact same time.”