As snow melted from the roofs of Soissons and the icicles dripped away, the muddy tracks between the houses hardened again into roads and the farmers outside the walls returned to plowing. Radegund told Celsa, “Soon it will be Spring, and then Easter.” Like most at Athies, Celsa had not been baptized. “We must prepare you,” the Queen said. Celsa could read now and even understand the prayers. Radegund began to train her, but also found a nun at the cathedral, Pia, to prepare her as a catechumen.

Unlike Radegund, Celsa would not have to go far. The cathedral, with its baptistery, was a short walk from the palace. Most of the ceremony was set, but there was one decision Celsa had to make. “You will need a new name,” said Radegund. “What should that be, Your Piety?”

Radegund had known that Celsa would look to her for this, as she did for all else that was new in her life. “Do you know St. Agnes? Her name means “pure”, but is so like agnus, that her attribute is a lamb. And you are so mild and like a lamb yourself, what do you think of ‘Agnes’ as your new name?”

“Oh, I think it would be wonderful!” As always, Celsa’s joy was so endearing, it made Radegund want to cry.

As Lent approached, Radegund quietly asked Pia for a service. The day before it began, a messenger arrived with something sewn between two squares of linen. Radegund took it into the latrine and opened the package to find a rough shirt of goat hair. She happily ran her fingers over the harsh fibers.

All through Lent, as Celsa prepared for her baptism, Radegund wore the hair shirt under her fine robes, exulting in the discomfort, a distraction from her sinful, luxurious life.

Good Friday came and then the evening before Easter. Radegund joined Celsa at the all-night service, and then for each step of the baptism, going with her into the baptistery and standing by her as she was washed of her former life, reborn again, and when the bishop asked what new name the catechumen would take, it was Radegund who answered, “Agnes”, and after her first Communion, it was Radegund who fed Agnes the spoonful of milk and honey: the first taste of the promised life to come.

And so Agnes was born, born into the arms of Christ. As Radegund walked behind her and the others in their new white robes, she thought with satisfaction that, if she had given the King no children, she now had a daughter of her own.

Agnes’ baptism had brought Radegund as close to the bishop as she dared to get. But he was a harsh man and she was slightly afraid of him.

Father Elias had taught her that a bishop’s role was to see to his flock, not only spiritually, but materially, ensuring that the poor, for instance, were always fed. But Bishop Bandry showed little interest in the poor. His sermons were about the rich, the privileged, and how far they had strayed from the Church. He raged against those who thought themselves above God and His laws. His ferocity felt personal, as if he himself had been offended.

She had no doubt that the bread he put in her cloth-covered hands was the Body of Christ, but still she trembled at the glare with which he gave it to her, as if she were particularly at fault.

One Sunday, he spoke of the fornication of kings, of those who, like David, indulged their lusts beyond the bonds of marriage. No one had any doubt whom he was referring to; the King’s shameless couplings were known to all. But Radegund was shocked, and a bit afraid.

As usual, Chlothar himself was not at Mass. Still, there was no doubt he would hear of this.

Soon after that, the bishop started in on a similar theme, speaking of the Church’s canons against bigamy. “This even,” he said pointedly, “applies to kings.” Nor, he said, did any man have the right to marry his wife’s sister. He raged at the offense to Christ, at the ostentatious obscenity of polygamy – incestuous polygamy! – by a Christian king. “These are pagan ways,” he thundered, “not Christian!”

Radegund could hardly breathe, feeling now all the shame of her position in the eyes of the Church, of her sinful role as a concubine, in blatant violation of the Church’s canons. Tears streamed down her face as she felt the filth of her state, however involuntary.

When the time came for Communion, she could not bring herself to approach. She hurried home, stricken by horror at her state, and feeling starved for lack of the Sacrament.

Chlothar heard of this and soldiers were sent to the cathedral the next morning. Chlothar would happily have had the bishop killed, but Ragingot argued against it. And so Bandry was only exiled; he left in a cart, surrounded by guards. Leaving Soissons without a bishop.

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