Blood Price

headquarters building seemed to deaden sound, but he made as much as he could anyway.

    This place needs some doors you can slam. And Shakespeare should have minded his own goddamned business!

    As he passed the desk, the cadet on duty leaned forward. "Uh, Detective, a Vicki Nelson called for you earlier. She seemed quite insistent that you check out. . . ."

    Celluci's raised hand cut him off. "Did you write it down?"

    "Yes, sir. I left a message on your desk."

    "Then you've done your job."

    "Yes, sir, but. . . ."

    " Don't tell me how to do mine."

    The cadet swallowed nervously, Adam's apple bobbing above his tight uniform collar. "No, sir."

    Scowling, Celluci continued stomping out of the building. He needed to be alone to do some thinking. The last thing he needed right now was Vicki.

Fourteen
    Henry stepped out of the shower and frowned at his reflection in the full-length mirror. The lesser cuts and abrasions he'd taken the night before had healed, the greater were healing and would give him no trouble. He unwrapped the plastic bag from around the dressing on his arm and poked gently at the gauze. It hurt and would, he suspected, continue to hurt for some time, but he could use the arm if he was careful. It had been so many years since he'd taken a serious wound that his biggest problem would be remembering it before he caused himself more pain.

    He turned a little sideways and shook his head. Great green splotches of fading bruises still covered most of his body.

    "Looks familiar, actually. . . ."

    * * *
    The lance tip caught him under the right arm, lifting him up and out of the saddle. For a heartbeat, he hung in the air, then as the roar of the watching crowd rose to a crescendo, he crashed down to the ground. The sound of his armor slamming against the packed earth of the lists rattled around inside his head much as his head rattled around inside his helmet. He almost wouldn't mind the falls if only they weren't so thrice-damned loud.

    He closed his eyes. Just until all the noise stops. . . .

    When he opened them again, he was looking up into the face of Sir Gilbert Talboys, his mother's husband. Where the devil did he come from? he wondered. Where did my helmet go?
    He liked Sir Gilbert, so he tried to smile. His face didn't seem to be functioning.

    "Can you rise, Henry? His Grace, the King, is approaching."

    There was an urgency in Sir Gilbert's voice that penetrated the ringing in Henry's ears.
    Could he rise? He wasn't exactly sure. Everything hurt but nothing seemed broken. The king, who would not be pleased that he had been unseated, would be even less pleased if he continued to lie in the dirt. Teeth clenched, he allowed Sir Gilbert to lift him into a sitting position then, with help, heave him to his feet.

    Henry swayed but somehow managed to stay standing, even after all supporting hands had been removed. His vision blurred, then refocused on the king, resplendent in red velvet and cloth of gold, advancing from the tournament stand. Desperately, he tried to gather his scattered wits.
    He had not been in his father's favor since he had unwisely let it be known that he considered Queen Catherine the one true and only Queen of England. This would be the first time his father had spoken to him since he had taken up with that Lutheran slut. Even three years later, the French Court still buzzed with stories of her older sister, Mary, and Henry could not believe that his father had actually put Anne Boleyn on the throne.

    Unfortunately, King Henry VIII had done exactly that.

    Thanking God that his armor prevented him from falling to one knee-he doubted he'd be able to rise or, for that matter, control the fall-Henry bowed as well as he was able and waited for the king to speak.

    "You carry your shield too far from your body. Carry it close and a man cannot get his point behind it." Royal hands flashing with gold and gems lifted his arm and tucked it up against his side. "Carry it here."

    Henry couldn't help but wince as the edge of his coutel dug into a particularly tender bruise.

    "You're hurting, are you?"

    "No, Sire." Admitting to pain would not help his case.

    "Well, if you aren't now, you will be later." The king chuckled low in his throat, then red-gold brows drew down over deep set and tiny eyes. "We were not pleased to see you on the ground."

    This would be the answer that counted. Henry wet his lips; at least the bluff King Hal persona was the easiest to deal with. "I am