Just as easily as the tip of a sword stripping a man of his life, the arrow through Robin’s leg changed everything. It had sliced right behind the bone, through the calf muscle. Robin braced himself from the quivering pain as the doctor dressed the wound, a thick tarry salve pressed into the open skin on both sides just before the muslin wrappings went on. It would be a hell of a recovery, and it wouldn’t take place here.

“Richard’s sending me home,” Robin told his friend.

“Thank God, I can’t stand you.” William cocked an eyebrow at the leg. “You can’t travel like that.”

“Not yet. In a few weeks. But I’ll be limping for months, so I won’t be much use as a body double like this.” He’d be likely to change the king’s moniker from Lionheart to Clubfoot.

“I think he may be done with the double-work,” William said gravely.

Robin had guessed the same thing. He had only allowed Robin to wear the crown at the surrender because the king had to be present, and Richard was too sick. “Because of the messenger?”

“Because of the messenger,” William confirmed. Ever since Saladin had shown his hand, Richard had grown increasingly suspicious of those around him. Perhaps that was exactly what Saladin wanted. “But the army will be here for a month, at least. Why not recover here?”

“Oh, I don’t get to ‘recover’ at all. He wants me to investigate what happened to the missing supplies,” Robin answered, echoing what Richard had told him.

“They’re probably at the bottom of the sea with the last ones,” William humphed.

“Probably. But Richard wants to be certain. Worried that someone at home may be trying to sabotage him.” It didn’t feel right. At first, the order had struck Robin as sharply as the arrow. Returning to England early felt like he was being dismissed, that he was abandoning his duties while there was still tremendous work and danger in front of them. But Richard would not be persuaded. Fear told Robin he was being used, sent off to die the way Richard had tried to send Ferrers. Or perhaps this was just another of Richard’s spontaneous decisions that held little backing. Either way, there was no arguing against the king once his mind was made.

Robin was bedridden for nearly a week before he could put weight on his leg at all. Much of that time was spent in the same room as Richard, recuperating from whatever sickness had taken him. Arnaldia was its name according to the doctor, a haunted man who spoke his own opinion too freely. Arnaldia—God’s curse. After Richard’s recovery, Robin had made a point to ask the doctor, “If the sickness was God’s curse, does this mean Richard is stronger than God?”

“Every man,” the doctor had sighed deeply, “is stronger than God.”