“Like his son, he was a great warrior. But unlike Arthur, he lacked an appreciation for the subtler virtues, not to mention any and all social graces. The dogs used to congregate under the table, right where he sat. They knew he dropped enough for a dozen men. Ate like a wild savage, spraying it about.”
“And this is relevant?”
“Yes, in fact. Uther was a giant of a man, battle-scarred and weather-worn. His teeth were crooked and cracked from one too many fists to the face. He could barely see out of one eye, from the great scar running a hairbreadth away, which pulled it up as badly as the other lid drooped. It allowed him to leer and look perpetually surprised, all at the same time, which you have to admit is fairly impressive. And then there was that great cauliflower of a nose—”
“I get the picture.”
“I doubt it,” he said dryly. “Men don’t live that way anymore, don’t fight like it, either. Even soldiers don’t. Years of hand-to-hand with swords and knives, of hard battles and harder winters, of constant stress and a great group of savages who followed you only due to your being the greatest savage of them all . . . it leaves a mark.”
“So Uther was unattractive.”
Rosier laughed. “Yes, in the same way that a skeleton is svelte! He was one of the ugliest men I’ve ever seen, even after all these years. Which didn’t matter to his men, of course, who were hardly the courtly knights of the storybooks. The local ladies were happy if they washed the dirt off once a month and remembered to only spit in the corners. But Uther didn’t want a local girl, did he?”
“Didn’t he?”
“Well, of course not! Or we wouldn’t have a story, would we?”
“I don’t know. You’re telling this.”
“I’m trying to,” he said pointedly.
I shut up.
“Of course, there were plenty of girls who would have taken him, scars and teeth and warts and all,” Rosier said. “And thought themselves lucky in the bargain. He was powerful and wealthy, by the standards of the day. Which meant you probably wouldn’t be raped by one of the Germanic invaders if you married him, and might have more than one dress to wear. But Uther didn’t want one of those girls. He might have, under different circumstances, the way you might want hamburger if you’ve never had filet—”
“Thank you for comparing women to beef. I assume you mean he met someone else.”
“Not someone, some fey. Igraine, daughter of Nimue, queen of what you humans call the Green Fey and the legends call the Lady of the Lake.”
“What? Wait.”
Rosier nodded. “That’s what I said. Wait. Let’s discuss this. But no, Uther didn’t want to discuss anything. Uther wanted the wife of Gorlois, Prince of Cornwall—or so he called himself. Everyone was a prince or king in those days, and who was to tell them no? Rome had gone and Britain was up for grabs, and it was winner take all, with the winner looking like it might be the Saxons until the local Britons got some help. But not from Rome. They’d written telling their old masters that they were being overrun, and Rome had written back telling them to join the club. Rome was dealing with Attila at the time—yes, that Attila—and couldn’t help, so the Britons turned to someone who could.”
“The fey.”
He nodded. “The Green, to be precise, who were more than happy to assist in return for some of those tolerant British women we were talking about. Always had a problem with their population, did the fey, and that went double for the Green living so close to the Dark and being at war with them half the time. People get killed in wars and have to be replaced, and human women made excellent . . . companions.”
“Spoken like a true incubus. You mean they were enslaved in a foreign land.”
“Spoken like a true modern woman, who hasn’t had to deal with living in a perpetual war zone. What you consider enslavement, many of them viewed as escape—from famine, violence, disease, death. . . . In any case, it wasn’t that foreign. People came and went much more freely then, living on both sides of the barrier. Like the beauteous Igraine.”
“Beauteous?”
“Oh yes.” Rosier leaned back against the tree, his eyes going distant with memory. “Hair a river of ebony, skin like alabaster, eyes as blue as a winter’s day—and twice as cold. She inherited her mother’s looks, but little of her magic and therefore decided to live on earth. Yes, war-ridden, diseased, and what have you.” He waved a hand. “Amazing what people will do when they’re smitten.”
“Smitten. You mean . . . with Uther?”
He burst out laughing. “No, not with Uther! With her Cornish prince! Or so she liked everyone to believe.”
“Then why are you telling me all this stuff about Uther?”
“I’m getting there.”
“Oh God.”
“Uther wasn’t a man to let a little thing like a happy marriage stand in his way. Not when the lady in question wasn’t just beautiful, but so well connected. Uther was trying to unite the Britons to fight the invaders, but petty princes like Cornwall were causing him no end of trouble. They saw no reason why he should lead the fight instead of one of them, despite the fact that he could crush the lot of them if he felt like it. But he couldn’t crush them and the Saxons, too, so something had to give.”
“And that something was Gorlois.”