Chlothar was old now, past sixty. His fear for his immortal soul was apparent in his attempts to curry favor with the Church. When Médard had died, soon after consecrating Radegund, Chlothar had had his body brought to Soissons and began building a basilica to house it, right by the city gates.

His last brother had died; he was now king of all of Gaul. Some thought he had softened and was no longer to be feared. Foremost among these was Chram, his willful, temperamental son. Chram had begun to rebel against his father, frankly hoping to take his place. He soon found however that the aging king had grown no weaker in battle and still held the loyalty of his men.

After several defeats, Chram fled to Brittany and allied himself with Chanao, the Breton king. Chram’s father-in-law, Willichar, took Chram’s part and Clothar pursued him to Tours, where he sought sanctuary in St. Martin’s basilica. Chlothar, unthinkably, burned the sacred place down. Meanwhile, his armies pursued Chram in Brittany and soon had defeated both Chanao and Chram. By now, this outcome was not unexpected and so Chram had ships waiting to allow his escape. But as he approached the rocky Breton coast, he realized his wife and children had not yet come to the ships. And so he turned back to find them, and Chlothar captured him, along with his family, and locked them all in a wooden hut.

The King, who had admired his son’s willfulness as a boy, was now enraged by the rebellion, enraged above all by the presumption that he was old. He had his son strangled, then watched as his men burned the hut down, listening, stone-faced, to the screams of his grandchildren.

This latest news tormented Radegund. She remembered that fiery boy, looking with desire at his father’s young wife. And his wife and children? What had they done? For a week, she held Masses for their souls. Once again, this new horror stirred memories in her of all she seen or heard of over the years. The distance between the world as it was and the Heaven she hoped for grew ever greater.

Then word came from Soissons – the King was to visit the convent. She had not seen him since going to Noyon, even as he funded the convent. Though she believed she had left all fear of him far behind, the thought of seeing him face to face drained her of strength.

Still, she helped Agnes prepare the nuns for a royal visit. They were to thank the King for his support of their community. When the day came and he dismounted outside the convent gate, she was shocked to see an old man, his hair gone white and thinning on top, almost no teeth left in his mouth, wrinkles etched deep in his skin. How had this shred of a man led warriors into battle? How had he found the strength to kill his own son?

His physical state aside, he seemed distracted, only half-listening to Agnes’ elaborate speech of thanks and the hymns of welcome sung by the nuns. At last, he turned to Radegund and asked softly, “Can we speak alone?” She had Agnes empty the chapel as Chlothar started towards the altar.

All at once he fell to his knees and burst into tears. “I have slaughtered my own son!” His face was contorted, not so much with grief as with horror at the enormity of his crime. But of course it was shocking. With all those he had massacred along the way, including his own nephews, to have killed his very son! And to have listened outside that burning hut to the cries of his own grandchildren. With all this, to have burned St. Martin’s basilica down!

“What will become of me after death?” His red eyes were wide with terror. “How long must I suffer in Eternity for what I have done?” Did he hear his own cries now, imagine his own body raked by fire like those of Chram’s children? He looked up at Radegund, who was too taken aback to react. “You must absolve me, Radegund, for all I have done against you and yours. You must do what you can to spare me the torments of Hell!”

A triumphant joy welled up in her, as she envisioned this man who had slaughtered her people, who had murdered her brother, who had killed his own flesh and blood – as she clearly saw him in a pit filled with bright, eternal fire, his skin bubbling and blackening, his face contorted in an unending scream, his body twisting as he struggled to escape the punishment he so richly deserved. But that joy gave way to the thought that all the harm one wished on another might with justice be visited on oneself, that in wishing Chlothar condemned to torment, she condemned herself as well. Her first rush of exultation collapsed into shame, which in turn became compassion, compassion for a sinner. A sinner like herself.

Making the sign of the Cross over the kneeling, weeping King, she said, with deep sincerity, “I absolve you, Chlothar, for all you have done to me or mine and pray that your soul be received into Heaven.” With that, Chlothar’s tears flowed all the more freely and he bent his head to the ground, kissing the hem of her robe. “Thank you, blessed lady! Thank you with all my heart.”

A few months later, he fell ill and quickly died. But not before asking, “How can God kill so mighty a king?” His kingdom was divided, according to Frankish custom, between his four sons. Radegund asked Agnes to order a Mass said weekly for his soul, and herself prayed fervently that he be spared the torments of Hell.

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