Henry had had enough with the excuses. He wanted Stephen back. His replacement was capable, efficient, quiet, too quiet. The man moved like a shadow, and looked at Henry as if the king were a sacred object he feared touching incorrectly. He hated it. He did not want someone new. He wanted Stephen.
Stephen, who understood him. Henry did not want rigid service. So he stormed down the hall to Stephen's room.
Stephen was folded on the bed beneath a blanket. Henry stopped in the doorway.
"Okay, enough!" he boomed and marched inside. "How long does it take to be sick? I know you are not still sick! Enough. I need you."
"Your Highness." Stephen got to his feet.
Henry stepped farther into the room. A cup of untouched broth sat near the bed. The physician's little bottles cluttered the table. "What is going on with you?"
Stephen lowered his eyes. "I am ashamed, Your Highness. I couldn't bring myself to face you. You trusted me," Stephen continued, voice tight, "and I broke your trust."
