Berthefred was right: it was a fine wedding. As befit the marriage of the great Chlothar and Radegund, princess of Thuringia.

Chlothar’s dukes came from across his realm, wearing glittering round helmets, sloping to pointed tops, the long ends of their mustaches hanging down, diamonds or emeralds in their pendants, their vividly-patterned cloaks closed with golden fibulae, intricate metalwork on their belts, golden hilts on their swords.

After the grand ceremony in the cathedral, a feast was held in the huge reception hall, with tables set along three sides. The dukes sat along the two facing sides with their richly bedecked wives, whose finery sparkled in the torchlight. Chlothar sat at the middle of the table along the rear wall, his graying black hair in braids beneath a spiked golden crown. Radegund sat beside him, dressed in a robe of purple silk with a white mantle, her golden hair coiled beneath a three-tiered crown, inlaid with garnets and precious stones. Torchlight glinted on her crown, her hairpins, her earrings, her ornate golden crucifix and her bracelets. But her youth alone – her fresh cheeks, her lively eyes, the combed sheen of her hair – distracted from all other ornament.

Berthefred sat to her right, his hair loose about his neck, flowing from a finely worked helmet. It was blond again, no longer dyed; soon he would be the King’s relation, not merely a warrior. Ingund, her graying hair covered in a round royal cap of dark silk, her dark blue robe quietly majestic, sat by him, looking slightly frail. To her right sat Guntheuc, her face worn with care beneath her white hair and dark royal cap. Aregund sat at the King’s left, defiantly bright in red and green, her lovely face proud; one might have thought that this was her wedding. Beside her sat Chunsind, the last of the older queens.

Childebert sat at one end of the royal table. Theuderic had died just years before and so Theudebert, whom Radegund had last seen at Erfurt, took his place at the opposite end. He was a man now, uncommonly handsome, his long hair carefully combed and braided. Soon after his father’s death, Childebert had attacked him, hoping to take his kingdom. But he had failed; the two were now said to be friends.

Servants brought in an endless flow of food – gruel, broad beans, lentils, salads, turnips, carrots, oysters, sparrows, chicken, pheasant, peacock, horse, boar and stag – on ornate platters and in bowls of silver and gold. Some was served simply, with vinegar and mustard, or a dash of fish sauce, some with cumin and pepper and clove. The peacock had been cooked in wine and honey, with pepper, then put back in its own feathers. A hare had been roasted, covered with herbs, then comically set in its skin.

Radegund stared when two men brought in a great platter, straining under the weight of a huge bull’s head, bigger than any she had ever seen. Enormous horns stuck out on each side. “What is that?” “An auroch,” said Chlothar, smiling broadly. “I killed it myself, just yesterday.” His pride in the exploit was plain.

Other servants followed, carrying the giant roast quarters of the animal. The first men set the head on a pair of bronze tables and the others set the platters holding the limbs on tables to either side. The guests applauded Chlothar’s prowess, then watched eagerly as the servants cut slices from the huge roasts. The King flushed with pleasure – after success in war, nothing pleased him so much as to be thought a great hunter. The guests for their part only grew gayer, seeing this rare sight and looking forward to tasting the meat of the wild ox.

Radegund, who had only dreaded this day, found herself caught up in the enchantment of it. She looked with wonder at the bell-beakers, each a pair of clear bulbs joined by a waist, its rounded bottom tipped with a button. She had never seen glass so fine – it was like water, frozen in space.

The young cup-bearers brought around narrow pitchers of beaten silver, pouring wine from Chlothar’s estates for those who wanted it. Many however preferred the foaming beer, carried in wooden buckets with hammered metal collars, a garland of flowers on each. Flowers were strewn all about the table and the floor, some tied to the wall – violets and daffodils, lilies and roses.

Between the courses, tumblers came in and danced, half-naked. They pranced and thrust their hips, making movements she vaguely understood to be obscene. Many of the men cheered and urged them on with vulgar cries.

At last the fruit was brought out, and the conditum – the spiced wine. As the guests bit into cherries and pears, hazelnuts and walnuts, a boy led an old blind man to the middle of the floor. Poverty marked his worn sunken face. But the King had had him dressed in a good wool robe of bright yellow. He held a harp, a small wooden box with arms rising to either side, four strings stretched between them: a bard. Radegund dimly recalled how she had loved the sagas and the songs of the bards who came through Erfurt.

The riotous crowd grew still. This was a rare moment, entertainment from an expert. He plucked a figure on three strings, then began a saga, several words in each sentence beginning with the same sound. Some of the older lords quietly approved his craft, how beautifully he made verse of the past. In this case, the past of Chlothar’s family, as he sang of how the Franks had been subject to the Romans, bitterly oppressed, until the great Clovis – son of Childeric, sprung from the tribe of Merovech – had been brave enough to shake off that yoke and take the Franks’ rightful place as rulers of Gaul. Drunken cheers filled the room as the dukes and kings approved his paean to their race.

He went on to sing a saga of Chlothar himself, of all he had done for his people, how great a hunter, how great a warrior, how manly a husband to his many wives. The guests looked at Chlothar, flanked by his royal spouses, and lifted their beakers in admiration.

Then someone shouted, “Sing one of the old ones!” The bard plucked a few notes, then began a tale of Odin and Thor. All the older men knew it and joined in heartily on many of the lines. Even Chlothar exuberantly called out verses about the old gods.

Radegund was horrified. “But we are Christians!” she said, turning to her new husband.

“Bah!” he spat. “We are Christians, yes, but we are also FRANKS!” And all his men, and his brother kings, echoed his cry: ‘We are FRANKS!”

The moment came for the couple to retire. All of the guests, quite drunk by now, roared as they rose. “It’s time for the stallion to mount the mare!”; “The King will lay waste to your maidenhead like the gates of a fortress falling!”; “Welcome your tilling, girl; the field does not fear the plow!”. Radegund blushed to be the center of such crude attention. Yet she knew all this was well-intended; she had heard worse at peasant weddings. Even Berthefred joined in. After all, was this not the whole point of marriage: that the man pierce the woman and make her belly swell?

Two servants lit their way up a stairway and to their room. Lamps already shone on small tables and the richly embroidered cover on the bed had been turned down below the raised back, exposing the down-filled mattress. Radegund trembled, torn between her desire to be the perfect Christian wife and her deeper desire to stay pure, to save her virginity as a gift to God.

Chlothar’s long hair was in disarray, his beard still flecked with bits of food, his black eyes alight with all he had drunk. Radegund began to carefully remove her white mantle and jewels, as he impatiently tore off his cloak and tunic, then lowered his two-legged brais. But before she was half done taking off her purple robe, he grabbed her roughly by the arms, threw her down on the bed, pushed back her robe and viciously forced her legs apart. She was too shocked to even feel fear, but fought the urge to react, knowing this was a wife’s duty. She took a deep breath as Chlothar pressed against her, waiting for that terrible rod she knew would be there to break her, to destroy what she had prayed so fervently to keep.

Only… all she felt was flesh. Limp flesh, no harder than she was in the same place. Chlothar, maddened, began to thrust against her, as if he could will his strength into that one part of his body. But it was no use. At last he gave up, growling like a wounded animal, glaring down at her as if this was her fault.

He got up and began to pace the floor, tearing at his hair. “What have you done to me? What have you done?” But even he could hear that was foolish. He sat on the edge of the bed, his head in his hands.

Radegund got up carefully, afraid any movement might set him off. “My lord, if you will permit me... I have a need.”

“Yes, yes, go ahead.” He waved her away without looking up.

She took one of the small clay lamps, pushed the curtain aside and stepped cautiously into the hall. The latrine was under the stairs. As she went down to it and stepped inside, she placed the lamp on the long seat and at once fell to her knees.

“Dearest Lord, you have heard my prayer. Thank you for protecting my purity. If it is Your Will that I let my belly swell, I will do as you ordain. But since you have spared me this loss, I take it as Your Will that I remain pure and thank you with all my heart for this blessing.” And so she thanked Jesus for making her husband impotent.

When she returned after more prayer, Chlothar was asleep, a hairy, flabby, half-toothless beast, snoring loudly, drool at the corner of his mouth: her husband in the eyes of God.

The young queen -->