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Hugh, was one of the most important men in the kingdom, having been one of Alexander’s regents. Lord de Gifford had continued in the king’s closest circle in the years since the king came of age and proceeded to succeed where his father had failed.
    â€œHugh de Gifford? The rumors are about him?”
    â€œYou must understand how important this is. Mykingdom is at stake. My life and the life of my queen and”—the king paused to whisper—“and the possible heir she carries is at stake. I must know if I can trust his advice or if he has ulterior motives for his words and wisdom.”
    William felt the irrational fear behind the words spoken as he considered them and did not answer immediately. So the queen was enceinte, then? Dredging up the logic that usually suited his purposes, he glanced at his king.
    â€œSire, what accusations have been made? What makes you suspicious about Lord Hugh?” He ran his hand through his hair and stood, staying close to the king so he did not have to raise his voice. “Demons, Sire? Who says such nonsense?”
    Alexander’s gaze sharpened and darkened. “Many. And I am beginning to suspect there is more to this. I scoffed at the first reports brought to me.” The king brought his head up as though listening for something and then shook it. “I would not have believed it either had I not witnessed . . . something.”
    It took only a glance at Alexander’s face for William’s urge to laugh to be quelled. The king took in a deep breath and let it out slowly and, for just a moment, the confidence of someone born to royalty slipped and Alexander appeared a tired, old man filled with fear.
    â€œTell me, Sire. What makes you think that Lord Hugh is something other than your man?” The king held out his cup, and William retrieved the pitcher from the table and filled it. Thinking on this situation, he filled his own and waited on the king once more.
    â€œI was journeying south to visit Melrose Abbey, and we stopped to see the progress Hugh was making onhis new keep. He invited us to stop to see the high tower he had designed himself. It was . . . ungodly,” the king ended on a whisper, as though afraid to say the words aloud. “He wore the strangest garb when he greeted us. A long robe unlike any I have seen before. It seemed to glow as he moved, and his hands shimmered,” he said, staring at his own hands as though living the moment again and again.
    The king reached out and gripped William’s wrist. “And the sounds coming from the lowest vault made my skin crawl and caused me to want to rush forth from the place and never return. I prayed two novenas at the abbey and still the feeling of being near evil remained.” The shivers that shook the king’s body reinforced his words. “He controls demons, William. He casts spells. He”—he paused and swallowed several time before finishing the words—“he speaks to the otherworld.”
    William stood then and walked away. How could this be happening? It did not surprise him that the king would not speak of such things before other witnesses, for the words would damn him as a madman. Demons? Spells? What folly was this that plagued the king’s mind? He turned back to urge the king away from such . . . fears when his arm began to burn once more. Clapping his hand over the intense pain, he tugged the sleeve of his tunic up to look at the area.
    Where there had been nothing before, a raised and burning red patch took form on his arm. It changed before his eyes into something . . . something he could not yet discern. Covering it from the king’s view, he realized that this situation was quickly growing out ofcontrol. Worse, there was something now wrong with him.
    William reached up to touch his head and felt the sweat pouring down his forehead. His lungs could not draw in a full breath, and his