The convent’s reputation grew. Though only select visitors could see the sacred relic, its very presence drew pilgrims to the walls. Maroveus raged and insisted pilgrims first stop at St. Hilary’s basilica and make an appropriate gift. But he dared go no further; the King himself, after all, had sent for the relic.

Radegund for her part soon no longer found comfort in this concrete presence of her Savior. Rather, it reminded her how unworthy she was of His sacrifice, how little she had suffered in her own flesh. For months, she went every day to the chapel and knelt before the jewel-encrusted wood in its silk wrapping and blue enamel holder, begging to be worthy of the One whose flesh had hung against that very wood, who had suffered for three entire days to redeem Mankind. She ordered the monastery blacksmith to make a small brass plate, bearing the Chi Rho – the Greek letters that begin Christ’s name; the same sign, resembling a P set on an X, which appeared on the reverse of Childebert’s coins. Alone in her cell, late at night, she heated this in the fire, then pressed it firmly into her inner thigh, just as long ago she had had cut herself there. She gasped as the mark branded her flesh, refusing to cry out. Pulling the plate away, she studied the red indent it left, before heating the brand again and marking the other side. Her Lord’s sufferings, those of the victims at Erfurt, of the two terrified little boys stabbed by their own uncles, all these contended in her mind, tormenting her beyond the searing pain of the heated brand.

When she was done, she fell to her knees and begged Christ’s forgiveness for her pride, for daring to try to suffer as He had.

When Lent arrived, again she fasted to a dangerous degree; she barely touched water and prayed in a ravaged voice. Her skin turned an angry red beneath her hair shirt. She grew weaker every day. Still, she took a water basin filled with burning coals and brought it with great effort to her room. As the heat of the coals reddened the brass of the basin, she set it between her legs, pressing them against it. The rim of the bowl burned a deep groove into her flesh, as she struggled to not cry out.

For days, the wound festered. She tried to hide her self-mortification from the others but Agnes, seeing blood seep through the haircloth, cried out, “Oh, Holy Mother!” She wanted to apply ointment to the wound, but Radegund forbade her. For the rest of Lent, she took a luxurious satisfaction in her own suffering.

Agnes sat across from Fortunatus, shaking her head. “What am I to do? The Lord does not ask such sacrifices of us. Even the martyrs suffered at the hands of others, not themselves.”

Her friend’s delicate face echoed her anguish. “Why does our Holy Mother do such things?”

“I dare not ask, Venantius. She does as she will.”

“But she looks so weak, so worn.”

“Yes.”

“This is the body God gave her. For that alone she should respect and care for it.”

“She looks only to the sufferings of Our Lord. And to those of the martyrs.”

Radegund sensed her friends’ concern; it showed so clearly in their faces. But it dimmed before the bright burning of her need to humble and mortify herself, to bow low before God. As weakened as she was by self-mortification, she did all her duties at the convent: cleaning the kitchen, emptying the latrines, sweeping the courtyard. Above all, she cared for the sick, bending to them with tender comfort even as her burns secretly tormented her.

Word spread of the miracles she accomplished. A girl named Fraifled was brought to the convent twisting and turning in convulsions, yet stopped at a word from Radegund. The back of another, Leubela, tormented her. Radegund’s prayer brought forth a rustling under her skin, until a worm came out, and Leubela herself trampled it under her feet, returning home cured.

Stories like this spread far and wide, and the sick came or were brought to the convent to be cured. As at Saix, when they were not, they blamed their own lack of faith or some insufficiently repented sin; when they were, they added their story to the many told.

The more the crowds came to Poitiers to visit the convent, the more bitter Meroveus became. Many still visited St. Hilary and brought gifts to his tomb. But those who sought cures came first to the convent and only after to the basilica.

Florentius -->