“No I didn’t. I said this was the earliest we could expect them.”

“Well I hope they arrive soon. I’d prefer to be alive when we get them.”

The night’s intrigue came in the form of a foreign man with dark features, dressed in a simple but well-tailored smock. Short, flat hair speckled the messenger’s round head, and his hefty beard looked recently washed. Even surrounded by English soldiers, there was no sign of fear in his eyes. Anything unexpected is an opportunity. It was a lesson William’s father had impressed upon him, though he was ever a student in its application.

The stranger gave proper greetings behind a smug smile, and spoke half-decent French. “Saladin welcomes you to his city, and wonders why you idle your time by giving us rocks, of which we have enough already. He has been expecting you for several months. He has heard news of your exploits on Cyprus, and apologizes that your holiest of intentions must need be delayed by the frivolities of women.”

The deadpan sarcasm translated across the language barrier. This was the second despot to challenge Richard’s decision to delay his Crusade by rescuing his own wife. Isaac Komnenos, the violent leader of Cyprus who captured her after she shipwrecked, also saw the hypocrisy of that situation. “Why are you even here, Richard? Take your Crusaders off my land, or has your God told you that Cyprus is now part of your holy quest? Is my tongue Jerusalem, that you are so quick to tame it? Is your woman Jerusalem, that you must so desperately occupy her?” It had riled Richard then. He left Isaac a prisoner bound in silver chains, an insulting kindness after promising not to leave him in irons. William hoped such sarcasm would not rile him again. King Richard was ruthless to those who insulted him, a petulant selfishness that was his most difficult trait to imitate.

“Saladin hopes your visit will be pleasant,” the messenger continued. “Our country is vast and beautiful, and appreciates your desire to see it. But he begs you against keeping camp longer than necessary. The winds can be cold, and the sun warmer than possibly you are accustomed. The lips, he warns, may crack, such is the heat in summer.”

Thankfully, Richard laughed. “That’s clever. I am pleased to learn that Saladin spends so much time thinking about the quality of my lips.”

The messenger bowed. “Very good, just as you say. King Richard, the Lionheart.” He emphasized the name slightly, as if it were an insult. Then, without hesitation, he made a quarter-turn and looked William in the eyes. “King Richard, the Lionheart.”

William’s fingers tickled the hilt of his blade. Nobody outside of this tent, especially an envoy from the enemy, should have known William was the king’s body double.

The messenger rotated again, now dead set upon Robin. “King Richard, the Lionheart.”