Soon after they returned to Poitiers, Lilliola sent them a copy of the Rule and with it a letter, exhorting the two women to live in Christ and praising their piety. Ever so gently, she reproached Radegund. “It seems to me you abstain to excess. Beware lest this make you sick and you find yourself unable to watch over your own… Recall Matthew 15:11 - ‘It is not what goes into your mouth that defiles you’”. Agnes prayed Radegund would take this to heart; but Radegund, though touched by the abbess’ concern, continued to refuse wine and eat sparingly.

Agnes assembled the nuns and read the Rule to them. Though most listened quietly, some began to murmur. “We shall never be allowed to go out again?” “And our cells; are we really to be put out of them?”

In the days that followed, one in particular complained – Chrodield, daughter of Charibert, another king. “Am I, a princess, to sleep in a common room?” “There are no princesses here,” said Radegund quietly, “nor queens; only brides of Christ.” Chrodield flushed, but dared not respond. Still, Radegund soon heard that she was grumbling to the others. She feared that some felt the same, even if they held their tongues. She felt a pang, considering how hard this would be for many. But in the end, she was sure, the nuns would be grateful for the guidance of the Rule.

A few days later, all the nuns except Radegund and Agnes moved their palettes to the refectory. Workmen came to tear down the cells, leaving only a great open space. When the nuns returned, each carrying her palette, many burst into tears. Chrodield raged. “Where is my chest? I left clothes and jewels in it.”

“There are no possessions here,” said Agnes firmly. In fact, Chrodield should never have been allowed to keep her chest. But before the Rule, Agnes had turned a blind eye to such vanities.

The nuns were accustomed to doing chores and even to weaving and cutting cloth. It did not disturb most to be put to such work. But many had allowed themselves little ornaments in their habits, touches of color, even sometimes a modest bracelet or earring. Sometimes too, even as they covered their hair, they raised it in braids and curls. But no longer. All were to wear the simplest white habit, their hair a modest height, with no jewelry at all. Radegund saw several fight back tears, as their last small vanities were stripped away. This pained her to se, but she was sure they would be the better for thinking less of themselves.

Each was to read, every morning, for two hours. In late afternoon, one nun was to read to the others. During the reading, they could perform whatever little tasks they wished. Chrodield managed to get two boards, marked with diagonal patterns, for games. She and others would play these games during the reading. Agnes and Radegund debated this. “So long as there is no gambling, what harm if it diverts them?” Agnes felt even more than Radegund how hard the new rule was for many. They chose not to refuse the nuns this innocent diversion.

They hoped to ease the nuns’ new life with another change. The convent’s baths had always been simple, a room with benches and a few tubs. Over time, they had fallen into disrepair. Agnes now ordered they be rebuilt and expanded during Lent. Workmen dug a circular pool, with a bench running around it, descending by three levels into the water. The odor of quicklime, used to cement the new walls, was strong. She allowed the servants and their families in to use the baths, knowing the luxury for them would outweigh the harsh odor. Only when it was entirely gone did the nuns begin to use the new baths.

Even cloistered, Radegund continued to correspond and hear the news. Chilperic, envying his brother Sigebert’s marriage, had asked for the hand of Brunehild’s sister Galaswinth. But Galaswinth’s father knew he had repudiated his first wife in favor of a servant, Fredegund, and in general was too much like his father Chlothar. He demanded that Chilperic repudiate Fredegund and all his other concubines. To Fredegund’s fury, he agreed. But what could she do? Not only had she been a servant, but she was low-born. And so Galaswinth rode north from Spain to marry the Frankish king. Radegund regretted she could not see her when she came through Poitiers, but wrote her tender letters. Knowing the sons of Merovech, she feared for the girl’s fate. Fortunatus, meanwhile, described how she had arrived in a silver tower set on wheels, the picture of glory and grace.

A month later, Radegund was saddened but not surprised to hear that Chilperic had again taken up with Fredegund. Galaswinth begged to be allowed to return to Spain. But fearing her father’s anger and public embarrassment, Chilperic put off her request. Weeks later, worse news came: her servants had found her strangled in her bed. It was widely claimed that Fredegund had done this with her own hands. Whatever the truth, the former servant was soon queen.

Brunehild, wild with rage and grief, urged Sigebert to go to war with his brother. Soon the cloister’s isolation became a welcome refuge, as all of Gaul exploded into war. Sigebert was an able leader and it was clear to all that he would win – until two of Fredegund’s slaves killed him in his tent.

And so Chilperic had the upper hand. When his armies came to Poitiers, the nuns smelled smoke and heard screams as his warriors ravaged the town. Radegund feared he might even attack the convent his father had helped build, but in the end it was spared.

Calm returned. Now Chilperic was master of Poitiers, as of many other places.

Radegund had prayed fervently for peace. As much as she mourned the good Sigebert, she gave thanks that this chaos was at an end.

Fredegund meanwhile strengthened her position, giving birth to one boy, and then another. They would share the kingdom with Clovis, Chilperic’s son by his first marriage, if not with his sister, Basina. Such was Frankish law. Fredegund had good reason to be content – until disaster struck: a plague. First one of her sons died, then the other, both at the same villa. Her grief was both that of a mother and a frustrated queen. She sent Clovis to the villa, hoping, all believed, he would share her sons’ fate. But he returned unharmed.

Radegund was dismayed to hear of such machinations; but not surprised, having seen such horrors as a child. It only made her more grateful to be out of the world.

Clovis, who knew full well what his stepmother had intended, was said to rejoice at his own good fortune. He became over-confident, almost acting as if he were king, and began to say the worst – true or not – of Fredegund. But he did not do this on his own. Like his father, he too had taken up with a servant girl, one with ambitions of her own. Fredegund knew only too well how dangerous such low-born girls could be. Then someone told her that in fact her sons had been poisoned, thanks to this girl and her mother.

She cared not at all if this was true or only a malicious rumor. At once she had the girl arrested and whipped until bloody. She had the mother too arrested and tortured until she confessed, Then she had the daughter impaled on a stake, set along a road Clovis took each day. She waited until Clovis had seen his lover, set naked on a stake, blood pouring from her mouth, before she went to Chilperic and warned him against his son.

Hearing this, Clovis fled – exactly as she had hoped. When he was safely out of sight of the palace, she had him captured and put to death, then told Chilperic he had died by his own hand.

His sister, terrified in her grief, was relieved when Fredegund came to tell her she would be sent to a convent – the convent in Poitiers. She hoped not to stay there – she might still make a good marriage –, but at least she would be safe within its walls.

Basina set out for Poitiers, with several men Fredegund had given her for protection. As they rode into a dense forest, one of the men grabbed her roughly, threw her to the ground, and lifted her robe. One by one, Fredegund’s men made sure she had no “gift” left to give a husband.

The moment she looked at the trembling, wild-eyed girl dumped in the convent courtyard, Radegund understood something had happened to her; something beyond perhaps the reach of prayer. She asked no questions, but led her gently inside.

The accidental woman -->