Friends began to write of a poet from the south, from one of the old cities in Italy where learning was still alive. When Chlothar’s son Sigebert had a magnificent wedding – several people wrote her of it –, this poet improvised a long poem of praise for the new couple. Good Latin verse was now rare in Gaul, but many of rank felt obliged to praise what they heard, much as they might have preferred the old German chants. But this poet – Venantius Fortunatus – inspired real enthusiasm and other courts were eager to have him come recite for them; if only to boast of his visit.

All the Latin verse Radegund knew was religious; she could not imagine what Fortunatus’ work was like. As he traveled about Gaul, she heard more of him and became intrigued. He had come north it seems to fulfill a vow: having almost lost his sight, he had prayed to St. Martin and been cured. And so all the while he was going from court to court, Sigebert and others paying his expenses, he had been making his way towards Tours. Finally, Radegund heard that he was there. She wrote to invite him to visit her convent.

He took his time coming, as was only right; he owed many prayers to St. Martin. But one day at last a servant with a rolling accent, quite handsomely dressed, came to the convent and asked for the lady Radegund, announcing his master, Fortunatus. Radegund had a servant take both to the guesthouse, there to wash and rest, and invited the poet to join them for an evening meal.

He met them in the guest room off the refectory, like all male guests. His neck-length black hair was beautifully combed and scented and he wore a silk robe in lushly contrasting colors. His fine-boned cheeks and sparkling eyes gave him a delicate, almost feminine, beauty. He spoke clearly, if with an accent, in a hushed voice that drew one in, as if caressed by its very sound.

He was no warrior; that was plain. But he was far more playful than a priest. Neither Agnes or Radegund had ever met anyone like him.

Despite his lean frame, when the cook brought out the salad, flavored with salt and oil, the dishes of lentils, flavored with honey and fish sauce, a large trout from the river, grilled in rosemary, and a host of other highly flavored foods, he ate with the appetite of a giant, eagerly using his spoon, his knife and his hands to devour what Radegund had feared would be too much food.

As always, she ate little herself, and Agnes hardly more; but both rejoiced to see this graceful, almost ethereal, man eat with such good appetite. Radegund felt a twinge, recalling her very different brother plowing through whatever was set in front of him.

Between mouthfuls of food and gulps of wine, he told how he had left Piacenza, expecting to return, only to have the Lombards attack and ravage his homeland. For the briefest instant, he became very somber. “I do not know the fates of those I love.” Radegund could too easily imagine these. But neither wanted to linger on the dark possibilities. “And so, you see me,” he said, “a poor wanderer from Italy, kindly received by those in Gaul.” As he spoke, he grabbed handfuls of hazelnuts and dates, happily washing them down with hot spiced wine.

He told them of his studies at Ravenna and vividly described the churches there. Enthralled, they found themselves traveling with him, visiting unknown places and reveling in their glories.

They listened raptly as he told them how he had left Ravenna, crossed the Po, then the Adigo where it rose into the Alps, the Brenta, the Piave, the Livenzo, the Talgiamonte – Radegund and Agnes tried to imagine all these rivers, all so close together, in this foreign place called Italy. Until now they had only known it as the site of Rome, which had spread its power over all the known world, building these roads which now carried Christ across the Continent, and of Ravenna, home of learning and magnificent churches. Climbing the heights of the Julian Alps – “You have never in Gaul seen mountains so magnificent!” –, he had continued on to Noricum, reaching the banks of the Inn, proceeding further north into Germany, along the Lech, the Danube, the Rhine – they trembled to think of him among the wild peoples there, most still pagan – until at last he came to the Moselle, moving into Gaul along the Meuse, the Aisne and the Seine, descending along the Loire and the Garonne, and on to the impetuous torrents of Aquitaine, at last reaching the Pyrenees, covered with snow in July (they marveled at the thought).

What anguish this had been for a poet! Long rides on horseback through savage woods, sometimes freezing, sometimes burning, finding no refined voice to critique his verse, to listen with welcome severity. Rather, when he found company at all, it was among the roughest barbarians, unable to distinguish between a raucous noise and a harmonious verse, swaying to the drone of a harp, repeating their wild, crude songs and when they let him speak, he half-hummed his words, as they drunkenly raised their maple cups in toast after toast.

“I had to act as mad as they,” he said, “Lest they think me crazy for acting sane. And I would come out of these orgies with my head filled, not with the enthusiasm of inspiration, but with the mists of madness.” Seeing the anguish in his fine-boned face, the two friends felt how awful it had been for so sensitive a soul to make this long journey through such harsh and brutal places. At the same time, they were alive with an unfamiliar excitement, caught up in this soft-voiced man’s account of his travels. He had a quality entirely new to them: charm. Neither had ever had a man simply draw them in with his words. Radegund had gone from the paternal care of Father Elias to Chlothar’s attempts to command her, and the obsequious compliments of courtiers. Agnes had simply lived a life of service.

And so, they were entirely defenseless before this newcomer who, with no apparent effort, enveloped them in a thrilling intimacy. Each leaned in, unawares, to catch his every word.

Having told his bracing tale, Fortunatus asked shyly, “Would you like to hear the poem I spoke at Sigebert’s wedding?” Eyes bright, the two women nodded, and he began to recite it:

In Spring, when the Earth is free of frost at last,

The countryside is covered with colorful plants,

The trees renew their thick locks,

The leafed and wooded mountaintops expand,

The swollen buds of the vines charm the eye,

Promising branches heavy with grapes.

The bee’s frail buzzing announces returning flowers,

Storing up the delicious honey.

Already, driven by instinct, the chattering bird has coupled,

And flies in haste towards his brood.

Each being, however old, is young again in its offspring.

In this return to life of all of Nature,

The world surrenders to joy…

Fortunatus settled into the guest house. His subsequent visits only endeared him further to the friends. Fortunatus became their regular guest, always eating well and often reciting poems. Hearing his words, full of flowers and perfumes and the exuberance of Nature, the two friends were spellbound. Some of his verse seemed as lovely to them as the most beautiful psalms. That a mere man, neither a Patriarch nor an Apostle, could express himself so beautifully seemed almost miraculous to them. Radegund sensed a shape in his verse, though it was nothing like what she knew in German. And of course his speech, with its hushed tones, its rolling r’s, only added to the power of his poetry, its velvet vibrancy strangely thrilling.

Always he ate with gratifying appetite. Radegund made excuses when he begged her to join in – she ate ever less as time went on –, but took great satisfaction in watching him eat. He came, quite naturally, to call her “Mother”, as he called Agnes his sister. Radegund’s hair was graying now, and lines marked her face. She had never for a moment thought to have children, but, as she had with Agnes, she again felt overwhelming tenderness at taking this younger person under her protection.

Fortunatus for his part had adored his mother and sister and welcomed the echo of that intimacy with these two women. Still, nothing was settled in his life. He began to talk of returning to Trevino or Ravenna, as soon as calm was restored. But he spoke listlessly, unsure of everything.

Radegund and Agnes had struggled to manage all that the convent required. Aside from ordering food, firewood, wool to weave, silk for altar cloths, wine for the refectory, all that the sick required, there were letters to answer from the various estates, revenue to collect, decisions to be made for those far off. The convent had agents to help with all this, but none the two trusted completely. Beneath his charm, his skill with words, his many tales, Radegund had seen that Fortunatus had good sense and an almost peasant practicality. Even his poetry served him, the tool of his survival. And so when she asked him if he would like to manage the convent’s affairs, it was not only because it pained her to imagine him gone.

Not only…

Fortunatus beamed at the idea, as delighted in his way as Agnes had been long ago, when Radegund first invited her to Soissons. No doubt this was in part because it meant his wanderings were at an end, that, until he knew his homeland was restored again, he had a place he could stay and be at peace. But he too had become deeply attached to his “mother” and “sister”. He owed much of his childhood joy to his sister Tatiana and being able to banter with Agnes under the loving gaze of Radegund sweetly recalled those days.

He was glad too he could be of service. He knew well that many thought him a sycophant, a trivial man with little more to offer than charm. But he had not succeeded in his studies or in learning the intricacies of Latin verse by being lazy. Even in the soft luxury of his family home, he had learned to watch over servants and to see that bread was baked and animals fed. He still recalled with pleasure how his mother and his sister would praise him for doing these things well.

And so, it was settled. Though other visitors sometimes shared the guesthouse, it was his house now and Agnes had a handsome table, carved with flowers, put in the dining room and vivid tapestries hung all around. She and Radegund took no pleasure in such things, but years at Court had taught them how much they meant to others and as always pleasing others gave them joy.

Agnes had never been beautiful, but the sweetness of her face became more pronounced as she passed thirty and lost the last of her girlish features. Sometimes Fortunatus took pleasure just in studying her face. This made her blush – she was not used to male attention – but added an inexplicable warmth to her feelings towards him, so that there sometimes was a shyness between them which made Radegund smile.

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