Since Chlothar had handed her the deed to Athies – a reward for something she had yet to give –, she had yearned to return to her last home. But for a year, Chlothar kept her at Soissons, expecting to show her off. At last the day came when he granted permission, and she rode off on horseback, followed by wagons and camels laden with simple clothes and gifts. Simply to be on her own – that is, without Chlothar – was exhilarating, even if he sent warriors with her.

When they left the stone of the Roman road for the dirt track that led to Athies, she already felt anticipation. As they reached the vineyards, just turning green, she took a deep breath, knowing that Athies was around the bend.

Nothing had changed. Men plowed fields and trimmed vines; wives churned butter and made beer, many with a baby at their breast. Children, still ragged and dirty, ran about or helped as best they could with some simple task. The wooden gate and the palisades were the same; the villa still rose white on the hill behind them. But as she rode in, the tenants ran to greet her, falling to one knee and bowing their heads, calling her “Your Piety”. Her eyes began to well up. “Call me your Radegund,” she thought, but simply nodded and waved to those she recognized. She ached to see some of the faces; she had forgotten how dirty, how hungry so many were.

Climbing the hill, she came to the villa gates and rode up to the old familiar entrance where Framberta, already looking much older, stood behind Samuel, with the rest of the household. All but Samuel bent to one knee, murmuring “Your Piety”. He bowed his head, then slowly said the same words.

“Oh Samuel!” she said, leaping from the blanketed back of her horse. He was not yet twenty, but already looked older. “Where is Father Elias?”

“In his bed,” said Samuel. “He is not well.” As he turned to take her inside, he added, “I am not yet old enough to be a priest. But I do what I can while we wait.”

She was shocked, when she got to the father’s sick bed, to see how frail he was, his cheeks hollow, his tonsure a thin, gray ring. The raised back of his bed allowed him to look her in the eye, but he could sit up no further.

“I will meet Jesus soon,” he said weakly.

As happy as she was for him, tears spilled from Radegund’s eyes; he had been part of her life for so long. Taking his hand in hers, she found it terrifyingly light. “Radegund,” he said, “please forgive me.”

“Why, for what, Father?”

“I knew what they planned for you. At first, it seemed a simple thing, merely the way of kings. But then I saw how much you loved the Lord.” He stopped, struggling to breathe. “I know you did not want this life.”

Softly she stroked his sweating brow. “It is what the Lord has willed, Father.”

“Amen,” he said, closing his eyes.

She was the lady of Athies now. Whatever authority her rank had once given her, this was now her domain and she was responsible for every soul on it.

Wearing a simple linen robe, with the simplest fastenings of tin and brass to close her robe and shawl, the metal rings on her belt hung with her comb, purse and knife, she began to visit her tenants. She did her best to put them at ease, to make them forget she was now a queen, but could not ignore their embarrassment, even terror. Most had never met a queen before and the fact that this one had been the sweet-tempered girl who played with the poorest children did not ease their anxiety. For her part, she suffered to see how poor they still were, how quickly the children snatched the bread, fruit and nuts she brought.

As gently as she could, she insisted on entering their huts to see the hearths of ash in rings of stones, the shaky stools and one table, the wooden plates and spoons, the crude pots and pitchers, the straw palettes. Often she would find someone lying there – a child with a swelling on his neck, a girl clutching her belly, a father with a rag wrapped around a festering wound. Athies, she saw with horror, was full of the sick and hurt, hidden away in the dark huts, many close to death from lack of care.

She ordered the steward to see which households were in need and to give them a ration of bread, broad beans, bacon and beer. She wanted to see no more starving faces.

She walked with him outside the villa walls, measuring out space for a new, long building. They had to move some tenants but had better houses built for them further down. Work began on the new building, with walls of stone, a Roman roof and windows all along the sides. When it was done, she had twenty beds brought in, built like her own with raised backs and feather mattresses. A long partition divided the spaces for men and women. Shelves at one end held pots and jars, filled with verbena, sage, wormwood, comfrey, colt-foot, artemisia, henbane, primrose, nard and other herbs and flowers known to the healers of the Gauls, the Romans and the Franks. Large wooden tubs were set at the far end of each side.

A doctor came from Soissons, a Greek, dressed in black with a long beard, and he and his helpers began to train five young women from the estate, teaching them that boiled partridge was good for diarrhea, hot goat’s milk or barley with hot wine for dysentery, butter from goat’s milk for consumption, garlic for dropsy, chate melon seeds for kidney problems and old wine and oil for poisoning. They listened respectfully, though many knew remedies of their own, learned from their mothers. Radegund sent for the sickest of the tenants, hidden away in the dark huts, and had them carried up to the new hospital. Some died soon after they came, others suffered despite all the baths and potions; but others grew stronger, strong enough to make way for new patients. After morning and evening Mass, Samuel would come and lead them in prayer, even from their beds. Radegund was sure this helped many recover.

Among the young women who cared for the sick was a girl Radegund remembered as a child: Celsa. She had been a homely child, her nose too big, her features uneven, but when the rough little boys would tease her, she answered so sweetly and so mildly, they would become ashamed. Now fourteen, she was no more beautiful, but still endeared all about her. She would sit for hours by a dying old woman, singing softly, asking about her younger days. She feared no illness, no pus, no blood, no sudden gush of diarrhea. She saw only human souls, and saw them with embracing love.

When Radegund herself helped with the sick, she worked beside each of the young women in turn, seeing that they learned to give the best, and the kindest, care. But she found herself turning to Celsa most often and sometimes sitting with her in the evening, chatting on one of the benches outside the villa.

She was pleased to see that Celsa taught others, and even trained girls who were still with their families, against the day of any sudden need. She had, Radegund saw, a quiet authority, untinged by arrogance, which made the others want to learn from her.

Radegund had been back at Athies for six months and the hospital was solidly established. As she walked about the estate, she no longer saw hungry faces. She would have been happy to stay there forever. But a message came from Chlothar, ordering her to return: Chunsind had died.

She knew he would not allow her to return soon, and quickly began to put everything in order. Celsa helped her organize and instruct the others. That evening, when they were alone, Radegund asked, “Would you like to come with me to Soissons, Celsa, and serve me there?”

The joy in Celsa’s face made her almost beautiful. “Oh yes, Your Piety!” And Radegund’s face too filled with joy.

Celsa in Soissons -->