The convent became famous, in Poitiers and beyond, for its healing. In part, this was due to Reovalis, the doctor, who had trained in Constantinople, and to the work of the nuns in the infirmary. Radegund and Agnes shared what they had learned at Athies and Soissons with the nuns, many of whom too showed great compassion. They taught them the herbs and potions suited to each condition. Still, many credited the convent’s power to its founder. A woman named Framfel was brought in, her whole body twisting with convulsions. When she was told that the nun treating her was Radegund, she at once grew calm, her face bright with joy. She left the convent on her own, untroubled by fits.

Radegund wore herbs such as wormwood close to her body, finding them refreshing. When a noblewoman named Bella was brought from the north to Poitiers, blind, Radegund took some and laid it on her eyes – and at once she could see.

Even when such cures failed, people blamed themselves and their sinful natures. But each time they worked, word spread far and wide, and ever greater numbers of the sick came to be cured.

One of the nuns took a chill and for a year shivered with cold during the day and burned as with fire at night. Finally, Radegund had her brought to her cell. By now, the nun could barely move and seemed close to death. Radegund had a hot bath poured and laid the nun in the tub with her own arms, then stayed with her for two hours. The woman revived and, for the first time in a year, drank some red wine. The next day, the other nuns were astonished to see her walk out, fully cured.

Radegund took no pride in these cures, which she regarded as the work of the Lord. But as always, it soothed her to see the sufferings of others eased. Still, she continued to be harsh on herself. For Lent, she was less severe than before, but only ate on Thursdays and Sundays and wore sackcloth and ashes. She rose before the others, eager to be singing psalms when they awoke.

Agnes was relieved to see she did not seem to be pushing herself to extremes. But for the following Lent, Radegund had the blacksmith come from the monastery and fasten three iron circlets around her neck and arms, each attached to chains across her arms and chest. Agnes wanted to protest this self-imposed torment, which no canon or scripture required, but held her tongue. When Lent ended however, the flesh had spread over Radegund’s bonds, embedding them. Before the blacksmith could remove them, the doctor had to cut her flesh away. Agnes could not bear to watch this, but Radegund herself looked towards Heaven as her blood flowed, grateful for this suffering of her body, so small compared to the torment of her soul.

Radegund’s self-mortification was private, and hers alone. She did not want her nuns to suffer, but to feel the same blissful serenity she first had in Noyon. Discipline and duty were not intended to constrain or oppress them, but to guide them through a comforting order, like sheep kept on a safe path, into the embrace of belief. She understood that this was harder for some than others. Some had come to the convent brimming with devotion, but others had dully yielded to obligation or even been sent despite themselves; others, though sincere in their vocation, still sometimes yielded to frivolity.

The city walls were thick, but did not block all sound. One day townsfolk were dancing to a long-necked cithara, merrily singing, just as Radegund was preaching to the nuns in the courtyard. One brightened and said, “Why I composed that when I was in the world!” Radegund started to smile, but stopped herself – she felt she should be stern. “That is fine, if you wish to mix religion with things of the world.” Still the young woman listened, enchanted. “Did you not hear that? I bound together tunes of three such songs.” “I heard nothing,” said Radegund firmly, “of any worldly song.”

But this was not precisely true. She had fought not to hear it, not to be distracted by secular diversions. For music and verse had always touched her. As a girl, she had loved the chanted poems of the bards and even as queen, though she hated the tales of Odin and Thor, when bards sang of the beauty of Nature or Christian themes, she delighted in the melody and the subtle structure of the words. Even then she had loved psalms and hymns, and much of her sweetest delight now was in singing with the others, or just listening to them as she went about her chores. But all this was for the glory of God. Sometimes she thought wistfully of some old scrap of song, of trivial but lovely words, skillfully set to a lilting tune. Half-aware, she would brush the thought away, like a butterfly blocking her view of the Light.

The poet -->