Médard had told her of Juneau, an abbot who confined himself to his cell and spent his days in prayer, and giving orders to ease the lot of the local poor. Before she approached his cell, she dressed in all her splendor, as she had at Noyon – her silk robe of purple, a chemise of gold thread, golden pins in her hair, jewels on her bracelets and pendants, garnets in her finely worked fibula. Guided by a monk, she entered the holy man’s cell, fell at once to her knees and asked for his blessing, before rising again and going to the small altar where he prayed, taking the finely worked pins from her hair, the glittering earrings from her ears, the jeweled bracelets from her wrists, her golden chemise from her shoulders, the magnificent pendant from her breast and at last undoing the fibula, laying it on the altar, and removing her purple robe, folding it neatly and setting it by her jewels. Now dressed only in her deaconess’ robe, she felt relieved of a great burden, as she contemplated the glittering pile and thought of how much good it could do.

She went on from there to the venerable Dato, dressed again in queenly garb, kneeling before the old man to receive his blessing, again removing her finery, piece by piece, and laying it on his personal altar, begging that he use this wealth for all his community. Going on to Metz, she sought out the refuge of Gundulf, who, Médard had said, would soon be bishop. She arrived again as a glorious queen and left, lightened, in her simple robe.

For weeks, she traveled about, re-enacting the same ritual, dressing as a queen only to divest herself, item by item, of those unwelcome vanities, leaving them in the service of Christ, gratefully stripping down to the simplest dress. As she freed herself of these hated glories, she thought of Chlothar and how he had imposed them on her, but also of the claim he still had on her. She knew as well as any the price of his anger. Since her brother’s death, she no longer feared her own. But she was anxious just the same, anxious that Chlothar might thwart her efforts to put her old life aside.

She returned to Athies, in part to see the poor and ill there, but also to confront Chlothar from a distance, from the base of her own estate. She wrote to tell him she was now the Lord’s, that she had left the Court behind and to beg him as a Christian not to tear her from Christ’s arms. She waited for a response, not knowing if he would send warriors to force her back to Soissons, or yield to the faith she so fervently expressed.

A royal messenger came a week later, bearing a letter and a deed. Chlothar did not explicitly release her from wifely obedience, but asked that she pray for him and let all she met know his love for the Church. It was the letter, she saw, of a man who feared God, who had begun to contemplate his own mortality. With it, he had sent her the deed to Saix, an estate between Tours, where St. Martin lay, and Poitiers, where St. Hilary was buried. She was touched by his tactful choice. It was also as far as she could get from Soissons and still be within his domains.

Could she trust him? She had learned since childhood not to trust the word of kings. But his letter and his gift were more than she had expected. For now, she took them at face value.

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