Gregory was shocked to see the nuns at his door, their white habits soiled and soaked through, their faces drawn and grimy, their head scarves awry. “We are weary, Holy Lord. From Poitiers to Tours, not one would give us either food or shelter.” Chrodield spoke for the group; Basina stood by her side.

By foot? To Tours? For days, it had been raining, raining in torrents, washing away the roads. But just the fact that they had left the convent – as if its Rule meant nothing – shocked him profoundly. He had barley bread brought, with broad beans and wine. As they devoured these, he listened to their tale.

Agnes had died soon after Radegund. The nuns, to Gregory’s great surprise, had sought exactly what she had so carefully avoided: the guiding hand of their bishop. Maroveus had begrudgingly taken the convent under his protection. But he wanted no more defiance from the nuns. He carefully chose as abbess Leubovera, whom both Radegund and Agnes had found too frivolous. As expected, Leubovera took her role lightly. She relaxed the Rule; nuns again were allowed their own trunks and minor ornaments on their habits. Chrodield, meanwhile, was enraged; she thought that her rank entitled her to the office.

Dismayed by the decline in discipline, Fortunatus resigned as the convent’s agent. In memory of Radegund, Leubovera left him his house and a small income.

Leubovera did her best to ignore Chrodield’s ill-temper, only gently chiding her when she disobeyed. Nor did she notice how unhappy the others were. But many felt she neglected convent affairs. Chrodield stirred their anger and quietly won many over. Basina too expected more consideration and did what she could to aid Chrodield’s effort. At last, they had decided to leave the convent and seek the help of their royal relations. Even Clotula, breaking the door of her private cell, had joined them.

Chrodield begged Gregory to feed and protect her nuns whom, she said, “the abbess of Poitiers has reduced to the saddest humiliations” while she went to tell the kings of their sufferings. But the bishop answered sternly, “If the abbess is at fault, if she has somehow infringed on the canons, I will meet with my brother bishop Meroveus and reprimand her with him. Once we have corrected the situation, return to your convent, lest too much liberty disperse what holy Radegund gathered by fasting, charity, and prayer.”

“No!,’ snapped Chrodield, “We will go to the kings!” They did not, she said, want to be judged by Maroveus, whom they blamed for many of their troubles.

Gregory could not believe his ears. Radegund herself had never so openly defied a bishop. “Why will you not listen to reason? Why do you refuse a bishop’s counsel? Do you not know the bishops will refuse you Communion?” This was not an idle threat. Together with Pretextat, Germain, Felix, Domitian, Victorius and Domnal – the bishops of Rouen, Paris, Nantes, Angers, Rennes and Mans –, Euphronius, his predecessor, had written a long letter placing the convent under their protection. This addressed the case of a nun who “urged by an unstable spirit wanted to soil with such shame her discipline, her glory and her crown; that, by the insinuations of the Enemy, like Eve forced out of Paradise, she agreed to leave the cloister, or rather the kingdom of Heaven, to plunge and wallow in the foul muck of the streets; let her be cut off from our Communion...” He read this letter now to Chrodield and the assembled nuns. But Chrodield stood fast. “We will not stop until we have reached the kings, our kin.”

Clearly, the canons – even the threat of excommunication – counted little for these rebels. He tried a more practical tack. “If you do not have the sense to heed good advice, at least consider this: stay through the winter, wait for spring, when the weather will favor your journey.” This they agreed to.

He did not want to house them with the cathedral nuns, and so he lent them a house the Church owned. But he was wary – he did not trust Chrodield and Basina to enforce the proper discipline.

By summer, Chrodield had not changed her mind. Ignoring Gregory’s pleas, she set forth with another nun to see King Gontrand. He received her well, covering her with presents, and agreed to convoke the bishops. The other nun went to a convent in Autun, while Chrodield returned to Tours to await the bishops. The risks of liberty were already plain; she arrived to find some of the nuns married. The bishops were slow to come, and so she and the others returned to Poitiers, taking refuge in St. Hilary’s.

Outside the holy basilica, men lounged against the pillars, sniggering and swearing. Their hair was matted and dirty, their mustaches unkempt, their tunics torn and stained. Most wore more than one knife at their belt; some let axes hang idly from their hands. Several passed around a wineskin, their faces red. When women approached the basilica, they frankly looked them up and down, crudely moving their hips and making coarse comments.

Approaching pilgrims stopped short as two nuns came out – both visibly pregnant. One of the nuns saw them and smirked.

After months outside the walls, the rebel nuns were completely of the world and not only knew men, but mainly the worst of men: thieves, murderers, adulterers, every sort of criminal. Far from fearing such rough, irreverent characters, Chrodield and the others did their best to gather them to them. For they were planning to take matters into their own hands.

The bishops of Bordeaux and Perigueux, and Maroveus himself, came to the basilica to admonish the women, urging them to return to the convent. “We are of royal blood,” said Chrodield, “and we will only return to the convent when the abbess is gone.” The bishops, as their letter required, declared the nuns excommunicated. The response was shocking: at once, the thugs about the basilica attacked the bishops, throwing them to the marble floor, attacking the deacons and the clerks as well, until all fled, their heads and habits covered with blood.

Chrodield then led her small gang to lands owned by the convent and appointed several as intendants, beating those appointed by the convent, forcing all to join her, and threatening to break into the convent and hurl the abbess from the walls. The bishop of Bordeaux wrote in the name of all three to the bishops then gathered by King Gontrand, who responded fervently: “We rejoice in your health, as much we are stricken with sorrow in learning of the injuries you received”. The letter went on to review the events and to approve the bishops’ refusing Communion to the nuns. At the same time, they urged prayer for the guilty parties who they hoped would do penitence “so that by your preaching and with the aid of Christ these souls, in a way lost, return to their convent, so that He who will return the lost sheep on His shoulders will rejoice in their return….” One by one, the bishops signed the letter:

I, Etherius, sinner, devoted to you, salute you. I, Heyschius, your client, I dare to salute you respectfully. I, Syagrius, who treasures you, I salute you with respect. I, Urbicus, sinner, who revere you, I salute you as a humble servant. I, bishop Veran, full of respect for you, I salute you. I, Felix, your servant, I permit myself to salute you. I, your humble and affectionate Felix, I dare salute you. I, bishop Bertram, your humble and obedient brother, I take the liberty of saluting you.

Maroveus sent Porcaire, the abbot of St. Hilary’s, to the other bishops to ask that he be allowed to give the nuns Communion and then hear their grievances. But they refused. Childebert, weary of hearing complaints from both sides, sent a priest to resolve the matter. But the nuns refused to meet with him until they received Communion – which the bishops continued to refuse.

The weather grew colder. Chill winds blew through St. Hilary’s. The nuns lacked firewood for so large a group and many began to fall away. Some went back to their families, others to their first convents. At last only a few remained with Chrodield and Basina, who began to quarrel, each thinking themselves more worthy to lead. The others grew restless.

Chrodield decided to take action. One night she led the nuns and the rough group of men around them to break into the convent. The men pried at the doorposts with iron bars and hacked at them with axes until the thick door in the wall swung open. The abbess, who was suffering from gout, heard the noise and had herself carried before the piece of the Cross, in order to pray for help. The men, charging in through the gate, lit candles and began to search all about. Coming into the chapel, one saw her, head down on the ground, before the Cross. He raised his sword, preparing to kill her, but one of his companions, shocked by the sacrilege, stabbed him. As his blood poured forth on the marble floor – the first ever shed in that holy place –, Justine, the provost of the convent, blew out his candle. Others came in with lances and swords, tearing the cloistered nuns’ habits, bloodying their upraised hands. Mistaking Justine for the abbess, they ripped off her veil and tore out her hair, dragging her in the dark all the way to St. Hilary’s. But as dawn lit their captive’s face, they saw their mistake. They dragged her back, bedraggled and bloody, and found the abbess, whom they took to the basilica and put in the room where Basina had been staying, setting guards outside her door.

As night fell again, they returned to the convent. Not finding any candles, they took an old barrel, smeared with pitch, and set it on fire. With this to guide them they searched about, taking everything they could carry: not only the gold and silver offerings, but the silk covering the altar, rolls of wool from the workshops, even pots and spoons from the kitchen.

It was now Lent, and seven days before Easter. Maroveus was overcome with horror and sorrow.

He sent word to Chrodield: “Release the abbess or I will not celebrate Easter, nor baptize any new catechumens. If you do not release her, I will assemble the townsfolk and come set her free.” At once, Chrodield chose the roughest of her men, each hardened by crime, to stand guard over the abbess. “If anyone tries to free her, cut her throat.” But Flavien, a new servant, brought them wine. When they had drained the wineskin and fallen asleep, he released the abbess and hid her elsewhere in the basilica. Soon Maroveus sent men to protect her.

This so enraged Chrodield’s thugs that they went out to kill random people. Finding a servant from the convent kneeling before St. Radegund’s tomb, they cut his throat as he prayed. Others fell to their axes and swords, to the rush of their unreasoning anger. Chrodield made no attempt to stop them. Rather, she urged them on, ever angrier, ever more assured of her own royal rights. She now treated Basina with frank contempt. Regretting her role in these troubles, Basina went to the abbess and begged for forgiveness. But her men quarreled with those of the abbess, and one of them was killed. Basina left, only to return after the others had withdrawn. The two again made peace, but their men met elsewhere and continued their brawl.

To the bishops, the cause of all this was plain: the Devil’s hand was doing its work.

Chaos now reigned around the basilica, and even beyond, causing fights, killings and tears on every side. Word of the troubles spread across Gaul. Childebert wrote to Gontrand, asking to gather the bishops of their two kingdoms. Childebert chose Gregory along with the bishop of Cologne, ordering them to join Maroveus; Gontrand chose the bishop of Bordeaux, who, as metropolitan for his region, was to bring his subordinates. But none would come to Poitiers until the civil authorities had restored calm.

The kings had had enough. They sent Maccon, the count of the city, with orders to use all necessary force. Chrodield, ever defiant, set her guards around the convent chapel. But they were no match for Maccon’s men – trained Frankish warriors, well-armed and in good order–, who beat them with sticks, pierced them with spears, stabbing more than one with swords. As they came closer to Chrodield, she grew desperate, holding up a crucifix and pleading, “Do not use violence against me, a queen, daughter of a king, cousin of another; stand back, or beware the day of vengeance!” The count’s men brushed her aside as they led her men, tightly bound, out of the convent and beyond the city walls where they tied them to stakes for all to see. They began to punish them in earnest, cutting only the hair of some, but the hands of others, and the noses and ears of others still. When they were done, they left them there: blood pouring from the stumps of their wrists, from their cut noses, from the sides of their heads. At last women brought rags to staunch their wounds.

With this terrible price, the revolt ended.

The trial -->