Gregory, Archbishop of Tours and historian of France, always addresses his friend Fortunatus as _presbyter Italicus_. That Fortunatus embraced the monastic life at Aquileia (about 558-59) has been maintained, and the opinion is also fairly defended that he was enrolled as a “cleric” at Poitiers, although he was _novus_, or a “new-comer,” there. He had evidently some _quasi_ ecclesiastical connection, and those were days when the celibacy of the clergy was much mooted, but when the wandering monks had not yet been held to the stringencies of the monastic orders. If we ask Fortunatus why he remained in Gaul, he replies that Radegunda retained him there “by her prayers and vows.” It is conjectural that he was first chaplain to the convent, and it is certain that then he was elevated to the rank of Bishop of Poitiers.
To this daughter of Berthar, King of the Thuringi, our troubadour now paid his devoirs. Often at “the convivial banquets of the barbarians” he had “poured forth his verses.” He was now to become the devoted cavalier of a queen and an abbess, and to furnish literature with some very unique specimens of religio-amatory verse.
The life of Radegunda, written by Fortunatus and amplified by the nun Bandonivia, furnishes many interesting facts about this holy woman. She took her final resolution to separate from her husband after he had unjustly put her brother to death. On this she went to St. Medard and declared her intention of celibacy, and thence to the church of St. Martin, at Tours, where she made her formal vows. From this she retired to her villa called Suedas, near Poitiers, which she turned into a convent. Thither in 569 the Emperor Justinus (Justin II.) sent rich presents, one being a portion of the true cross. This inspired Fortunatus with a new song, and he broke out in the _Vexilla Regis_, which is surely one of the most stirring strains in our hymnology.
The following version expresses literally and without modification the ideas set forth in the Latin:
The royal banners forward fly; The cross upon them cheers the sky; That cross whereon our Maker hung, In human form, by anguish wrung.
For he was wounded bitterly By that dread spear-thrust on the tree, And there, to set us free from guilt, His very life in blood he spilt.