They rotated that responsibility. Each day one of them donned the king’s mantle while the other lurked nearby. They normally chose at random, or by a throw of dice, or a drinking game when William wanted to win. Richard himself preferred to go “slumming with the soldiers,” or the packmen, or wherever he found curiosity each day. Some of the noblemen in his retinue thought the strategy reeked of cowardice, though they’d only admit it beneath a barrel of wine. But Robin saw it more about giving the king freedom than taking the target off his back. Richard preferred to observe, without worrying about how his every pause or hesitation might be interpreted by others. Robin and William’s main task was to exude confidence, protecting the king’s reputation as much as his body. It was how he came to be called Lionheart, because he never appeared to fear for himself. Though that title was ever a misnomer. Lions, so Robin was told, were solitary beasts with little cunning in their hunt. Richard and his two private guardsmen relied on mutual strength and deception. A wolf in lion’s clothing.

They were hardly identical, and anyone close to Richard clearly saw through the ploy, but none of the common soldiers could ever tell the difference. The warcrown surrounded one’s face with mail, and all three of them were of comparable height and hair. “And handsome,” as Richard always insisted. Robin had no doubt theirs was the finest position in the English army. While in the crown, Robin was effectively King of England, trusted to make decisions and commands. King Richard had his secret ways of directing them, or providing quick counsel, but for the most part he trusted in their competence on noncritical matters. If only Robin could write his father and describe his daily duties, then old Lord Walter of Locksley might die of fury. Robin had joined Richard’s retinue four years earlier, well before his coronation, and even then Lord Walter had been livid over the affiliation.

It was probably part of the reason Robin enjoyed it so.

“I try desperately to be unlike my father as well,” King Richard had once laughed when the subject was broached over a cask of ale. “My father was King of England, and my father spoke English. Sharing one of those traits with that monster is quite enough.”

“It’s pretty,” William said absently, and Robin didn’t recognize what he meant until he waved his hand at the foreign landscape. The ocean to their right ate up the bare moon, splitting light as wide as the horizon, black and sharp. The distant city would have seemed like a promise of comfort if this were England. But here, that prettiness came with consequences.

“Don’t fall in love with her now,” Robin chided. “She’ll look different in the morning.”