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a lot more alcohol in it than anything his parents drank. Greg figured it would be painful on Athos’s raw wound, but unfortunately, he knew of no other way to sterilize it. “Hold him tight,” he told the others.
    Aramis and Porthos set their weight on Athos’s arms and legs again, and when they were ready, Greg carefully poured the alcohol into the wound.
    Athos snapped awake again, wailing like a banshee. Catherine knelt over him, stroking his face and doing all she could to calm him. “Everything’s all right,” she cooed. “It’ll all be over soon. Just relax.”
    Greg dumped the entire bottle into Athos’s wound, letting it spill back out again, hopefully flushing out whatever bits of debris and diseased flesh might be left inside. When that was done, he poured in the water he’d heated. While this hurt Athos as well, it was considerably less painful than the alcohol, and he calmed considerably. After Greg had repeated the process several times, the water came out as clear as it had been going in, indicating that the wound was as clean as he was going to get it. He nodded to Aramis, who quickly placed the poultice over the wound and lashed it in place with strips of cloth to protect against any further infection. Aramis’s herbal knowledge appeared to be spot-on. No sooner was the poultice on than a look of relief spread across Athos’s face and he slipped back into sleep.
    Emil rushed over, unable to wait any longer. He had gone white at Athos’s final scream and now looked even more disturbed than Athos did. “What’s happening?” he demanded. “Is Athos all right?”
    â€œHe’s fine,” Aramis said. “Thanks to D’Artagnan.”
    Emil’s color returned. He turned to Greg, impressed. “Then I owe you a great debt of gratitude.”
    â€œWe all do,” Catherine said. She was looking at Greg now with something more than respect, as though something had changed in how she thought of him. When Greg met her eyes, she turned away, blushing.
    The silence was broken by the sound of hoofbeats coming quickly. Greg turned to see the steed gallop into camp and head for the crowd of soldiers. “Where’s the commander?” the rider demanded. “I have an urgent message for him.”
    The soldiers pointed toward Emil. The rider dismounted and rushed over. He was a young boy, barely any older than Greg, and he recoiled with fear upon seeing the makeshift operating room.
    â€œI’m the commander here,” Emil said. “What news do you bring?”
    â€œI’ve just ridden directly from Paris,” the messenger replied. “The city is under siege.”

SIX
    A CCORDING TO THE MESSENGER , C ONDÉ’S ARMY HAD begun the siege that very morning. A sentry on the city wall had spotted them just before dawn, coming from the north. King Louis had rallied what few troops he still had, ordered the local farmers to take refuge within the city walls, and dispatched the messenger to find the French army. As he had left before the attack had come, the messenger had no idea what had transpired since, though he guessed Condé’s army to number a thousand men.
    Emil agreed to turn his army around and start north toward Paris at first light, although Aramis feared the city wouldn’t survive long enough for the soldiers to return. “Not if Milady knows how to breach the city walls,” he warned.
    And so Aramis, Porthos, Greg, and Catherine decided to ride on ahead of the army. They accepted a hot meal from Emil, as well as new clothes and weapons. They went to bed as soon as the sun went down, intending to catch up on some much-needed sleep, although it seemed to Greg that he had just closed his eyes when Aramis was already shaking him awake. The sky was still dark, so Greg checked his watch.
    â€œIt’s three in the morning,” he protested.
    â€œWe’ve wasted enough time