Bishop Placentius died. The new bishop deferred to the convent, aware of its royal origin, and agreed to Radegund’s every request. Then he too died and another bishop was sent to replace him: Maroveus.

His name was so like that of the King’s ancestors that some whispered he was of royal blood – but of shameful birth. Radegund and Agnes went to the cathedral to see him invested. He was a wiry, scowling man with gray hair, his eyes darting from one side to the other, as if he feared attack. When Radegund went after the ceremony to humbly pay her respects, he barely acknowledged her.

“We would welcome you, Holy Lord, to our convent.”

He glared at her. “I am your bishop. I have no need of your invitation.”

Shocked as she was by his bad manners, she responded humbly and took her leave.

A month passed before he sent word that he would visit. The nuns prepared, lighting candles in the chapel and strewing flowers all about, there and in the reception room.

He arrived in state, with priests attending him, his own robe richly embroidered, his white stole stitched with gold. He listened impassively to the hymns the nuns sang for him and as Agnes explained how the nuns lived and what their duties were, while Radegund walked behind them.

The convent cook had prepared salads and gruel, broad beans flavored with mustard, and a roast pheasant brushed with honey. He ate all this methodically, as Radegund and Agnes took spare spoonfuls of their beans and small bites of their barley bread, themselves drinking water even as they saw that he was served good Greek wine.

Biting into the pears and hazelnuts which ended the meal, he looked sternly at Radegund. “Many come to Poitiers to visit your convent.”

Radegund bowed her head. “Yes, Holy Lord.”

“Yet the patron saint of the city is Saint Hilary. Once people came for his relics.”

“Many, I am sure, still do.”

He looked down, chewing slowly, before saying, “You must remember something.”

“Yes, Holy Lord?”

“You are a queen.”

“No longer, Holy Lord. I am only a sinner.”

He snorted. “You still have friends at Court. The King still supports you. Many bishops consider you their friend.” He spit all this out, as if his own words tasted bitter.

Radegund had no idea what to say. And clearly Agnes, though abbess, mattered to him not at all.

“I want you to understand this. I am your bishop and you answer to me. Never forget that.”

“Of course, Holy Lord.” But the fact that he had to say it only showed how unsure he was of the fact.

She had left two relics at Athies: an armbone and a tooth from two minor saints. Now she had them brought to Poitiers and set them, still wrapped in ornate silk cloths, on gold stands by the altar. When Agnes presented them to the community, carefully unwrapping each herself, the nuns marveled at them, as simple as they were, full of emotion at being in the physical, tangible presence of actual saints.

As word spread that the convent held these treasures, more women from the best Frankish and Roman families begged to be admitted to the convent. She asked Maroveus to hold the Mass for each saint’s relic. He did so begrudgingly. “Do not forget,” he said, “this is St. Hilary’s city. No other saint must displace him.”

“These are modest figures,” she said mildly, “and few can visit them.”

He grumbled, but presided at each Mass and said no more about it.

The pupil -->