Her mind turned more and more to the sick on her estates and at Soissons, to the poor, whom she tried to see fed and clothed, and to those condemned, fairly or unfairly, by the King. The immensity of suffering in the world sometimes overwhelmed her, but she was determined to do what she could. Agnes, who had been born among the poor, only felt their trials more keenly and gladly helped her in all this, training other women as well. With this, both spent much time in prayer, and studying the Bible and the lives of the saints.

Chlothar brooded about Radegund’s devotion, which left so little time for her life as a queen. Yet sometimes he would donate funds for a hospital or a workhouse, where the poor could make clothes or grind grain with a hand mill: two large round rocks set one on the other, with a hole down the center where the grain was poured and crushed beneath the top stone as it turned. Radegund still could not decide if he was a Christian; he happily listened to the old pagan songs and did not disapprove of the New Year’s revels, nor other pagan celebrations, yet took care to give money to monasteries and churches.

Nor could she tell how he felt about her. His very moments of terrible anger showed that she mattered to him, that he wanted her respect as his queen. He had never had a wife quite like her. If the others would raise their voices, or collapse in bitter tears, all in the end did what he commanded. Radegund was always mild and even-tempered, but in the end did as she chose.

For her part, she could never love him – she did not consider that part of her duty – and at times he horrified her, when images of Erfurt or memories of the little princes returned and she recalled those two small sarcophagi in Paris. But sometimes she felt compassion for him, for all the understanding he would never have, for the distance in his heart from the Lord.

The one man she missed, over and over, was Berthefred, who only sometimes came to Soissons, and then often when she was at one of the villas. She saw him so rarely that the changes in him were plain. He looked harder each time they met, his cheeks rough, his features more fixed and harsh. Still, he was her brother and her own tenderness had not faded. Berthefred himself, when he saw her, softened, touched by the woman she had become, still in his heart his little sister.

“How is my little saint?” he asked, embracing her.

“‘Saint’, Berthefred? A strange word for so bad a sinner.”

“That is what the courtiers call you, you know. Some even say you are still a virgin.”

She flushed. “How would they know?” She feared in fact Chlothar had said as much.

“Almost ten years have passed now,” he said, “and still your belly has not swelled.”

She lowered her eyes. “That is God’s will.”

“Is it?” He looked distracted.

“What are you thinking of, my brother?”

“Since I came here, I have only thought of one thing.” He lowered his voice. “Thuringia.”

As she always did when he mentioned this subject, she felt a flash of fear. “Thuringia is lost to us, Berthefred.”

“Perhaps.” He leaned in closer. “I have had news from Constantinople. Did you know Amalfred made his way there?”

“Our cousin? He lives?” She felt a rush of joy. “I thought he had died in the battle.”

“So many did,” muttered Berthefred. “But no. He is in Byzantium and even has some influence, I am told, with the Emperor. I have written him.”

“Written? How? You never learned your letters.”

“Through a scribe. A scribe of my own.”

Again, she felt sickening fear. “Then someone else knows...”

“Oh, do not worry. I pay this man well for his silence.”

“But if ever Chlothar found out...”

“Bah!” He waved away the thought. “Look at him, Radegund. Half his teeth are gone, his hair is more gray than black. He is not what he was.”

She wanted to contradict him, to warn him that Chlothar was far from frail. But her brother had become so hard, so implacable. So much more, in fact, like Chlothar.

Catastrophes -->