The three knights left the church and went to the new inn where they were intent on enjoying some wine and a hot meal. The Belanus Inn stood at the crossroads near the bridge, replacing an old inn which had been destroyed in a fire not that many years earlier.

Guillaume looked at the sign which featured a pathetic image of a golden-haired Celtic god holding a wooden mug of ale. Naturally, in deference to the power of the Church in Amiens, the Celtic god wore a covering exposing his impressive chest and arms.

Geoffroi walked ahead of Guillaume and Roland into the common room, “The best of your wine for Lords of the Realm!”, he called out.

A serving maid followed by the proprietor of the inn came rushing up to the three knights just as their squires entered the inn.

“This way,” bowed the inn’s owner. “The finest table in our humble establishment for you, my Lords. Whatever you need, it will be our intense pleasure to provide.”

“We require a room for the three of us and another for our squires,” Geoffroi instructed as he removed his riding gloves. “Bring us your best wine and venison. It has been a long and dusty ride.”

The servant girl rushed to bring six mugs and two pitchers of wine, while the proprietor’s wife carried in a pot of steaming venison stew. Two other serving girls rushed to help fill the mugs.

At the back of the room, in the shadows beneath the stairway, a man sat alone, observing the fawning over the three knights. He waited until some semblance of order returned before walking over to the trestle table around which the knights and their squires were engaged in discussions about the day’s ride.

“Sir Guillaume,” interrupted the solitary man. “Perhaps you remember me?”

Guillaume looked up at the intruder and was taken aback. He did know this man, but it was impossible that it could be the man he remembered from his youth. The man looked identical to when he had seen him thirty years earlier.

“Laurent?”

“Ah, I see you do remember me. Perhaps you would care to join me at my table so that we can talk about old times?”

“Of course,” Guillaume replied, turning to his fellow knights to excuse himself from their company and join Laurent.

Taking a seat opposite Laurent at the small table set away from the bustle of the inn, Guillaume listened as Laurent began to explain why he had reappeared in Guillaume’s life.

“I see that you’re surprised to not only see me again, but to see that I haven’t aged a day since our first meeting when you were a young knight returning from war. Aren’t you curious as to why I haven’t changed?”

“I have my suspicions,” Guillaume offered. “But I am not so sure that we should speak of them. The walls have ears, and those ears are not so kind to those who are, shall we say, different?” Leaning closer to speak so softly that others couldn’t possibly hear, Guillaume added, “Perhaps you’re not really Laurent. Who are you, really?”

“Remember where we met and what you saw at that meeting, Guillaume. Think. Perhaps it will dawn on you just who I truly am.”

Guillaume didn’t respond right away. His mind took him back into the past. He had crossed back into France when William of Normandy had secured the throne of England. He hadn’t been in a rush to get back home though he was the Lord of Longpré, and that he had a beautiful wife in his Chateau.

Life at home with his wife had been unpleasant before he left to support William’s ambition to become King of England. Theirs had been a marriage for political and economic reasons. He had married the only child of the Lord of Arras, a marriage that had increased his land holdings. With no real expectations for love, he had done his duty and bedded her frequently, attempting to sire an heir.

For two years their efforts had proven fruitless. She had become angry with him, blaming him for not having good seed for her womb. When Guillaume had left his estates to answer William’s call to arms, he had been relieved.

As he had ridden towards his estates along the Somme River with his small company of soldiers, he felt a compulsion to make a detour into the forest on the north side of the river. Guillaume instructed all in his company, excepting his squire to continue following the straight old Roman road to their homes. Then, he turned to follow the faintest of trails heading to the north. He was certain he and his squire were being watched, though he never saw or heard anything that confirmed his suspicions.

After more than two hours, the trail all but disappeared. Yet, somehow, he continued to go forward as though following an invisible thread. The appearance of an opening in the forest surprised him. There was a village of sorts in the opening. However, the dwellings appeared to be temporary. They were constructed of thin trees, thatched with grasses for roofs, and willow branches for walls.

At the centre of what appeared to be a circle of stones, he stood transfixed. He instinctively knew he had just happened upon a holy place. His grandfather had spoken to him about the old religion that they believed was still being practiced in the dark forests, away from the Christians who wanted to destroy the pagans to the last person, and the old pagan religion.

Then with a shock of disbelief, Guillaume protested, “You aren’t a Celtic god, are you? You don’t glow like a god should.”