As they and their guards neared the city, Radegund saw a river to her right: the Seine. Lined by reeds on either side, blue with reflected sky, it looped down from the north and already began to head back west at this point. Further south, she knew, it looped back to Paris. At left, a small road led off towards a wooden chapel, set in a clearing where the road ended. Wagons, oxen and horses lined the road, left by pilgrims who were lined up outside the shrine; for this was the simple chapel St. Genofer had built over the grave of St. Denis, right at the spot where he had brought his own head. Looking south, Radegund saw a steep hill: the Mount of the Martyrs, where the executed saint had begun his trek.

She and Agnes respectfully took their place behind the pilgrims, some ragged and haggard, some hale and handsomely dressed, before the entrance to the small wooden structure. But seeing her guards and laden wagons, all insisted she and Agnes precede them. Reluctantly, they agreed; their time was short.

Inside, a simple stone marked an earthen grave, covered with jewels, cakes, candles and other offerings. This was where the saint’s headless body lay, with his head set by the neck. Radegund and Agnes set down gifts of their own, then knelt to thank St. Denis for his sacrifice in bringing Christ to a pagan Gaul. Radegund was overcome at the thought that one saint lay here under a chapel built, and in recent memory, by another. Even St. Martin’s tomb did not seem so holy or so moving. The two women prayed fervently, forgetting for a time all else.

Returning to their retinue, each rode her horse before the ox-drawn wagons, the camels and the mounted warriors, turning right, back onto the road to Paris which led them after a short distance to the base of that steep hill. Again, they dismounted, leaving their baggage and beasts with the warriors. A narrow path led up the hill through a thick forest, coming out at the top to what once had been a Roman temple – a small chapel with four columns under a slanting roof, framing a curtained entrance. Here was the site of St. Denis’ martyrdom, with a shrine in memory of that somber event.

The guardian of the shrine, a priest, came out to meet them. He ushered them into the dark chapel, where oil lamps lit an altar. Gold, silver and jewels covered this, offerings from the faithful. The women set down their own gifts of silk and gold, then fell to their knees and prayed again, but more briefly.

When they were done, Radegund and Agnes stepped outside and surveyed the view far below. Thick forests hid St. Denis’ road as it went towards Paris and the straight, bright line of the Seine. Patches of water gleamed through the trees: ancient swamps. Nearer the river, tawny squares of grain showed where these had been filled in and planted.

The priest pointed to a white band, visible in the distance beyond the treetops. “That is the wall that surrounds the island of Paris.” Other walls rose above it at right. “That is the palace,” he said, then turned towards the left, where the metal roof of a long building caught the late sun. “That is St. Stephen’s, the new cathedral built by the good king Childebert.” Radegund wondered if Childebert thought he could so easily atone for his murder of his nephews and his ther sins. Beyond the front of the cathedral, past the island itself, a hill rose with indistinct masses on its side and another tall church at its peak. “That hill is where the Romans first founded the city. What you see on its sides are the ruins of Lutetia, after the barbarians sacked it, and drove the Parisii to the island and forced them to fortify it. St. Genovefa lies in that church, and behind her the good king Clovis, whom the holy Clothild will soon join.”

Radegund looked out at the mass of green, at the gleaming swamps, and at the band of white in the distance, marking where human hands had brought order and enterprise to those fertile, untamed wilds.

The palace complex occupied the whole western end of the island. It was smaller than that at Soissons, limited by the narrowing of the tip, yet still more magnificent, with rows of stone arcades welcoming arrivals into small courtyards and innumerable rooms.

Childebert and Chlothar had not yet arrived, and the funeral was to be delayed so that mourners could come from all over Gaul. Chlothild was not just the first Frankish queen; she was universally admired for her sanctity, for having led the rough pagan Clovis into the civilizing embrace of Christ. And so Radegund and Agnes had the next day free. That morning, before the sun was up, they headed to Mass at St. Stephen’s.

A single stone road led from the palace through the center of the island, with short streets coming off it along the way. Most of the houses here were of stone, though, as at Noyon and Soissons, some Frankish huts were set between them. Ahead they could see the bulk of the cathedral, silhouetted by the morning sun. The dim morning light lit the old Roman stones on the road and the many people, Frankish and Roman, who already stirred from their houses, also going to Mass.

The streets were more crowded than at Soissons. Centuries before, a whole population, then spread out on the opposite bank, had been forced to take refuge on this island and their ranks had only increased since then. Some of the houses had two stories, but even these were crowded now.

A short distance before the cathedral, they came to a crossroad. As they reached it, they could see that it led to bridges, surfaced with planks, on either side. At far right, between the crossroad and the bridge, a small market was opening, wagons taking their places as they came in from the countryside. Across from this, haggard faces looked out the narrow windows on a long building: prisoners. Otherwise, shops lined the way, the sides of the houses still closed with covers of close-set boards.

The short road from there to the church was crowded with houses, except for a tiny square at the end. The main cathedral was the usual high rectangular structure, with lower wings to either side. Early sun sparkled on the long tin roof, worked with figures of angels and saints. Three porticoes welcomed the arriving crowd. Radegund and Agnes turned as they entered to admire the paintings above the entryways, showing the martyrdom of St. Stephen, before turning back to look down the nave. Intricate mosaics of squares and lozenges, framing animals and abstract patterns, covered the floor. Beams of bright sun thrust in through the three windows above the altar, piercing the gentler light from casement windows set high above the nave and the lower ones above the aisles on either side. The sparkle of gold inside the cupola echoed that on the silver altar below.

They crossed to the right aisle and joined the other women there. As simply as both were dressed, the ragged women around them, in their torn and stained clothes, could see they were women of quality and stepped respectfully aside.

Radegund rejoiced to be in the cathedral, in the city St. Genovefa herself had saved, and to be known only as a woman of rank, not a queen. But when she went to take Communion, the bishop, who had been to Soissons, blanched. She paid no notice, but waited as a cloth was placed on her hands and the Body of Christ upon it.

Courtesy required that she greet him afterwards. Flushed, he said, “But Your Piety, if I had known...”

“I came here as a Christian,” she said softly, “not as a queen.” They exchanged a few words about Chlothild, then she and Agnes took their leave.

Outside, the shops between the bridges were open now, the sides of the houses showing their wares. Cushions hung from a pole above the table in one shop; gold jewelry glittered at the back of another; further on, flat codices were set out on a table, along with rolls of papyrus. Tin plates and pots hung across the entrance of the next. Rich piles of silk and fine woolen cloth sat at the back of one shop, with samples spread out on a table before it. The owner was dressed in black, with a long conical hat. Radegund tried to remember whom she had heard wore such clothes, then realized with horror he was a Jew. One of that race that had killed Our Lord. Another dressed the same way stood before rows of black jars, with bowls full of brightly colored powders set out on the table before him – cumin, ginger, clove, nard and costus, with a very small bowl holding pepper, the most valued of all. Across from him, another man also displayed bowls of green, red, ocher, and black powders. He too was dressed strangely, but in bright silk covered with ornate designs. Seeing the cross around his neck, she realized he was a “Syrian”, one of the Christian merchants from the same lands as the Jews.

At the market in the corner by the bridge, turnips, onions and leeks, rabbits and chickens, rough-hewn stools and other simple merchandise were displayed beside the wagons, buyers and sellers haggling loudly.

As she edged her way through the growing crowd, she understood why Clovis had made Paris his capital. Its very noise and clutter made its energy irresistible.

She and Agnes headed through a large gate onto the bridge that led to the right, where they saw that hill, covered with ruined Roman houses, the road continuing up through these to the Church of the Holy Apostles. The fronts of some of the houses had fallen, showing their faded Roman walls. Furtive figures scurried between them, hiding among the ruins.

Vineyards ran along the lower part of the slope. Scattered fig trees rose among the long, low rows of vines. To the right, on flatter ground, more vineyards stretched deeper into the interior. They turned for a better look and saw a small church set on a low mound, with a long building beside it. Before the mound, the banks of the Seine were muddy, crowded with clumps of reeds.

Men stood outside the building, dressed in simple robes. “You are from Paris?” Radegund asked, sensing they were not.

“No, my lady, I come from Orleans and they from Troyes and Lyons. We serve the bishops who are here for the funeral. They have gone to meet the bishop of Marseille.”

“What church is this?”

“St. Julian the Martyr’s. Many from the Church stay here when they come to Paris. Especially now, when the Bishop of Paris has so many guests to host.” Indeed, Radegund realized, the city would be overflowing with visitors.

She and Agnes went in to pay their respects to the saint, then returned to the island.

A new saint -->