Father Elias’ clerks arrived from Laon. All were young, but most near manhood. One however was still a boy: Samuel, an orphan who had been raised in a monastery. Like Hrotgund, he had learned to read at a young age. He was barely taller than she, slightly plump with a round head, his red hair already tonsured. He always looked uncertain, yet as if amused by his own lack of assurance.

He joined Hrotgund and the father in the morning, then stayed after to keep her company. When he saw her with the dirty boisterous tenants’ children, at first he kept his distance. When they rushed like wild animals to eat the scraps she brought them, he was shocked. That evening he asked her, “Should we not teach them to eat like Christians?” He was gratified to see Hrotgund’s sweet face – he thought it the face of an angel – light up at the thought. And so they sat down to consider what must be done.

Though Hrotgund was only ten, she understood her own authority at the villa; and so she went to one of the carpenters on the estate and asked him to make twenty stools and as many wooden bowls and spoons.

It took him a week, but one afternoon, after she and the others had eaten, she had the servants set up trestles in the inner courtyard and lay boards across them, exactly as she had seen done at Erfurt. She and Samuel set the stools all about the temporary table and put a bowl and a spoon before each one. Then she called in the thin, restless children, inviting each to take their place.

They sat staring at the empty bowls and grew all the more restless when Samuel and Hrotgund disappeared into the kitchen. But minutes later both came out with pitchers, bowls and cloths. The children relaxed, thinking they would now eat something beyond the piece of flat bread and weak beer they got at dawn. But instead of feeding them, the two went from one to the next, pouring water over their hands, and washing their hair and feet, then rubbing them roughly with the cloths. The children were not used to being washed, nor did they see the need for it, but once the soaking and the rubbing was done and their hair began to dry, they did not find it unpleasant.

The two friends disappeared again, then returned with buckets and a basket full of bread – not the hard barley flatbread the children had at home, but the fine leavened white bread served at the villa. Samuel set half a small loaf in front of each of the children, as Hrotgund ladled gruel into each bowl. On top of this, she set a slice of bacon, more fat than meat, just as all Franks liked it. The children of course did not wait while others were served, but at once began to spoon the gruel into their mouths, grabbing the bacon in their freshly-cleaned fists and gnawing at it. But Hrotgund shouted until they stopped. “We must thank the Lord for this food!”

The pagan children stared, the Christians sighed. All obeyed her instructions to bow their heads and clasp their hands, while Samuel recited grace over the table, then made the sign of the Cross. Hrotgund said, with adult authority, “Now you may eat. You will know better next time.”

The children went back to wolfing down the gruel and tearing at their bacon. When one had trouble with a tough piece, she or Samuel used the knives they carried on their belts to cut it smaller. More than one kept their half a loaf to carry to their family. When they were done, Samuel and Hrotgund again washed their hands, exactly as in a great house.

As the children began to file downhill, Samuel watched, his eyes moist. “That is how I might have been,” he said, “had the brothers not taken me in.”

“Christ works wonders, does He not?”

“Amen,” said Samuel. “Christ, and the love He puts in men’s hearts.”

Father Elias began to hold a general Mass, early in the morning and in the evening. Sunken-eyed tenants filled the small chapel, their coarse woolen smocks and robes often dirty and worn, stained from their labors, the women all on one side, the men on the other. Elias and his clerks came in, carrying a simple cross, singing hymns. To Hrotgund, their uncertain voices sounded like an angelic choir. The tenants too had never heard anything like it and that sweet sound alone was enough to hold many in thrall. Father Elias would read from the Gospel in Latin, to the wonder of all these weary working people, before speaking in a mixture of Gaulish Latin and the Frankish tongue, the tenants being both Gaulish Romans and Franks, explaining the text he had just read and showing its meaning in their daily lives.

At last, he would bless a small, round loaf, slightly raised and divided by a cross, and a chalice full of wine, and then the clerks would come, one by one, to receive Communion, to sip the wine and taste the bread which were now the Body and the Blood of the Lord. None of the tenants, nor Hrotgund herself, were yet baptized, and so they could only watch; Hrotgund hungrily, eager to taste the holy feast.

Sometimes she wept at the beauty of it all: the music, the sharing of the Host, the humble, tired faces radiant with wonder at these holy rites.

Samuel, who assisted at the services, later sat shyly beside her on one of the stone benches, discussing the details of the rite. He did not join Hrotgund when she went to run about with the other children, but still helped her, several times a week, set the spoons and bowls about the long table, wash the children’s hair and then their hands, before feeding them the food they so greedily awaited.

One day she said, “We must teach them the service.”

Samuel blinked. “But many are not Catholic.”

“All the more reason to show them what it is to worship Christ.”

And so that afternoon after the meal was done and they had washed all the children’s hands, she commanded, “Come!”. Samuel had tied two sticks together and she lined them up behind him as he carried this makeshift cross into the chapel. He began to sing a hymn and from the end of the line she joined him as they advanced. Those who had never been inside stared at the faded image of Christ and His flock, and at the brass cross, lit by candles set on the blue embroidered cloth.

Samuel guided the boys to one side, she the girls to the other. Standing beside him, she said, “this is the house of Christ. Some of you have been here, many have never seen it. But you can feel how holy a place it is, how wondrous it would be for you and your parents to leave the old gods and bring your souls home here.”

Samuel listened, amazed. He had never heard a woman, much less a girl, preach; he had never even thought such a thing possible. Caught up in the thought of it, he did not at first notice she had turned to him. “If you cannot lead a service,” she whispered, “you can at least give a blessing.” And so he looked out at the children, some little more than toddlers, others nearly grown, and made the sign of the Cross. “The blessing of the Lord be upon you.” “Amen,” said Hrotgund.

Turning towards the altar, she lifted her hands towards Heaven. “Lord, touch the hearts of these children and bring them to You. Let them know Your Mercy and Your Goodness. This I ask, in Jesus’ name.” “Amen,” said Samuel.

Again he raised the simple cross and began to move towards the door. The others lined up behind him, urged on by Hrotgund, and respectfully followed him out.

Father Elias was amused. “The Mass is not a children’s game. But perhaps this simulacrum will draw some pagans to Christ. You may continue. Only, see that you limit such play to a procession, perhaps a lesson, and a blessing,” He looked sternly at Hrotgund. “Also, my girl, I am told that you preached to the group. That is not your place. In all you do for Christ, you must be led by a man.”

Humbly, Hrotgund assented. But later she wondered, “Must that always be so?”

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