“What of your wounds?” he said.
Gorlois’s black beard was down on his breast, and he looked only at the fire. He seemed like a man furtive beneath the consciousness of some inward shame, mocking his honour.
“My wounds are well, sire.”
“You look like a man newly risen from a sick bed.”
"If I look sick, sire, blame my physician; he has tinctured me to the level of perdition. Bodily I never felt in better fettle. I could hew down a horse, and thrust my spear through a pine trunk. A man’s face is a fallacy."
Uther saw the scars, the harsh smile, and caught the twinge in the seemingly careless voice. He could comprehend some humiliation in the marring of personal comeliness, but not the humiliation that seemed to lurk deep beneath Gorlois’s pride. There was more here than the scarring of a cheek.
“There is some care upon you, Gorlois,” he said.
“Sire, you have much observation.”
“Your men have spoken of the change to you.”
“They are too discreet, God save their skins.”