The young woman was beautiful, her blue eyes still bright as a child’s, her cheeks slightly pink, her soft skin vibrant; her blonde hair carefully combed, hanging in braids, setting off the deer’s heads on her earrings, the straight line of her nose widening into two gentle curves, echoing those of her thin, determined lips.

As Radegund looked into the mirror, she felt a rush of tenderness for her reflected self, seeing for a moment as another might how enchanting she was; a woman now, of fifteen, trained in all the graces, alert to the intricacies of her own mind. She had not grown very tall, but her poise and her willful intelligence gave the impression of stature. It helped that she had learned some measure of authority, as her early concern for her playmates grew into a sense of duty, prompting her to see to their care, asking the estate steward who had trouble paying their rents or providing the required labor, seeing that those who could work did, but offering aid to those who could not. Athies was not her estate, but she now understood her privileged place there and sought to use it to best effect.

Frotlinda had died giving birth, reminding Radegund with a pang of her own mother, but Framberta, now a married woman with covered hair, still watched lovingly over her young mistress and today had carefully dressed her in a fine, green woolen robe, with a red shawl about her shoulders, closed by a clasp in the shape of a dove.

She was preparing her for her trip.

A message had come the previous morning and Father Elias – his ring of hair going gray – had told her to prepare to travel. “Ragingot will be here tomorrow. He is the Mayor – that is, the foremost man – of the Palace. He is to take you to Vitry to see the King.”

Samuel was waiting as she headed to the courtyard. He was a young man now. Though not yet old enough to replace Father Elias, he often took his place as the priest traveled the countryside to bring the neighboring pagans into the fold. Still, as Radegund stepped into the light, her blonde hair neat, her clothes bright and gay, he again looked shy, the awkward clerk who had shared her play.

“Will you return, do you think?”

“I cannot say, Samuel. I know nothing of what awaits me.”

She stood for a moment looking into his eyes, and he into hers, then rushed off before tears could come.

A wagon waited in the courtyard, with a cushioned bench set at its back. Warriors sat by it on particularly fine horses, the guards on their swords, like their buckles and clasps, all of gold. A man in his forties stood between them, lean, with a large nose and narrow eyes, his hair not dyed like those of his men, but its natural dark color. The long ends of his mustache hung to either side. He wore a tunic of dark silk, his cape of the same color closed by a stylized bee, inlaid in the Frankish style with red and yellow garnet.

“I am Ragingot,” he said. “I see to the King’s affairs. You are ready?” It was not a question.

“I am, my lord.”

He lifted his hand and two warriors stepped forward to help her into the wagon.

Ragingot rode beside her, flanked by the guards, as they proceeded north through Ham, past St. Quentin and towards Peronne. He was not one for idle chat, but instructed her in what was necessary for her visit: that Vitry, like Athies, was but one of the King’s residences, though he spent as much time there as at Soissons; that she would have time to rest before being presented formally; that he did not know how long she would stay; that all plans could change, in an instant, if the King was called to battle.

Most of the road was Roman, though in great disrepair. Sometimes the wagon would sink, then jump abruptly, where missing stones had left a deep hole. The view was much as she remembered from her first trip: long stretches of dark forest, then clearings where flat fields of grains and huts with deeply sloping roofs had replaced the trees.

She was pleased to see far more crosses now set along the road, sometimes in simple bowers of bent saplings, sometimes in actual chapels. Still, pillars topped with pagan heads or altars holding crude carvings of Odin and Thor sometimes appeared. They filled her with horror.

She had expected Vitry to be far grander than Athies. But as they approached, the one difference she saw was how much richer and spread out the farmland was. Scattered stands of forest stood in the open fields. Thick flocks of sheep covered some stretches; large herds of cattle grazed along others. But when they got to the gate and the palisades, these looked much like those at Athies, except that the villa behind them stood on lower ground. Also, many more artisans worked in the courtyard: blacksmiths, jewelers, cobblers. Smoke arose from the anvils and the kilns, and from several bakers’ ovens, these sunken in the ground, each with a long ditch before it where the coals were raked out of the beehive oven and pots set on them to cook. Balls of dough sat on boards to one side, ready to go into each oven as it reached the proper heat.

As at Athies, the villa stood behind its own stone wall. Among the buildings before it, a chapel stood out, its roof bright with gold. The villa itself was bigger than at Athies and in somewhat better repair. Inside, some of the walls still bore Roman decorations, red and black and ocher. But the most damaged had simply been whitewashed.

Ragingot watched as slaves took her trunk, then said, “They will see you to your room. The baths are attached to the back of the house. When you have washed and rested, they will dress you to meet the King.”

Hours later, when she had been bathed and refreshed, and a slave was combing her hair, Ingund appeared in the doorway. Radegund had not seen the Queen for two years. She rose to do her reverence. “Your Piety...” But at once Ingund embraced her, then stood back. “How beautiful you are.” Radegund blushed; she was not used to compliments. Under a headscarf embroidered with gold, Ingund’s hair was now streaked with gray. Her face, still lovely, was deeply lined. “Let me help you prepare.” She studied the silk garments the slaves had set out, asked to see others, picked through the hairpins and fibulae set in leather cylinders and held them up one by one against Radegund and the laid out robes, and slowly, with the help of the slaves, brought out all the light and grace in the much younger woman.

“You and your sister live with the King now?” asked Radegund.

“Often.” Ingund smiled triumphantly, as she pushed a golden hairpin into Radegund’s shining hair. “I think he has wearied of her somewhat.” She stood back to study her work. “A wife must know how to care for a man, and my sister cares only for herself.” She chose a silk robe of pale blue for Radegund, with a slightly darker shawl, which she closed with a cruciform fibula, inlaid with dark blue stones. From several belts, she chose a wide one of gold mesh with a buckle of two facing horses.

At last, she stood back and studied her old charge, Radegund’s fresh beauty set off by silk, gold and jewels. “How precious and fleeting a thing is youth,” she said, with a sudden rush of grief.

Ragingot came for her in early afternoon. Two of his men flanked them, armed with axes and scramasaxes, slaves carrying torches before and behind them. As they approached the great reception hall – twice as large as that at Athies – she heard shouting and laughing, and deep male voices. Stepping in, she saw rows of warriors, lit by torches and candles, stretching to either side of a man on a folding chair, the curved legs beneath it mirroring its curved arms. He sat on a cushion set on straps that ran between the sides.

All the men fell silent as she walked in, in part at Ragingot’s command, but also in awe at her beauty. The gaze of so many men frankly looking her up and down sent a chill through her. It took her a moment to compose herself enough to look at the man on the throne, with his long black hair and burning black eyes. As Ragingot brought her closer, she made out streaks of gray in Chlothar’s hair and the spaces where he had lost his front teeth. Seeing in him the man who had so fearfully fought for her years ago, the image of Erfurt, of fire and fallen bodies, flashed across her eyes.

She flinched as a warrior at his right stepped towards her, then felt a rush of relief: Berthefred. He reassured her with a look, then took her hand. “Your Piety,” he said, stepping forward, “I present you my sister Radegund, whom you have not seen since she was a child.”

She inclined her head, swallowing hard. “Allow me to thank you, Your Piety, for your kindness all these years.” Ragingot had instructed her to start with these words.

“It is the duty of a king to see to his own.” Chlothar did not move at all, but studied her carefully. She had seen men buy horses and knew that look of careful examination, of checking each feature on an animal before making the bargain. As awkward as this felt, she could only stand until he was done.

“You have become a beautiful woman.” He nodded with satisfaction. “As I knew you would. And your studies? I am told you know your Latin well.”

“That is not for me to say, Your Piety.”

He kept his eyes on her, like a cat set to spring. “Indeed. But that is what I am told.”

He asked her a few more questions, with all the warriors watching and listening intently, before he dismissed her. Berthefred escorted her back to her room.

Despite the reassuring strength of her brother’s arm, she trembled as they walked. “What does he want from me, do you think?”

Berthefred stared straight ahead, silent.

She looked at him closely. She had not seen him for several years. All trace of the boy who had ridden with her from Erfurt was gone. His face was harder now, his red mustache long. She would almost have feared him, had he not been her brother.

But when they got to her room, he touched her cheek with his old tenderness. “Remember, Radegund, whatever our rank, we are captives. That has not changed.”

She stayed at Vitry for two more days and met with Chlothar on both of them. Three of his queens – Ingund, Aregund, and Guntheuc – sat with him, but sat in silence as they spoke. Guntheuc was old, her hair gone completely gray. She always wore a dark head covering, over the round cap of a queen. Aregund, her red hair still thick and dark beneath her green head scarf, was already past thirty, but still had the lively, slightly flirtatious air of a much younger woman. She glared at Radegund, as at an intruder.

Ragingot did not accompany Radegund back to Athies, but sent her with an escort of four men. She barely noticed the familiar courtyard as they rode in, so lost she was in thought.

Escape -->