“Pride, pride.”
“Sire, you are right; my pride suffers the inquisitiveness of kings, not subjects. Eagle calls to eagle; men are mere magpies. Chatter maddens me.”
“I grip your hand in spirit.”
Both men were silent for a while, the fire crackling sluggishly at their feet. Gorlois’s eyes were on the window and the scrap of green woodland in the distance; Uther’s eyes were on Gorlois’s face. The latter, with the sore sensitiveness of a diseased spirit, felt the look and chafed at it. His petulance was plain enough to Uther as he sat and watched him, and pondered the man’s trouble in his heart.
“Gorlois.”
“Sire.”
“I am no gabbler.”
“True, my lord.”
“You are trouble ridden.”
Gorlois’s eyes flashed up to Uther’s, faltered, and fell.