Overall, despite all the problems and challenges, the form of the single year has proved illuminating, stimulating, challenging and worthwhile. I hope that it stands as an example to show that historical discoveries are not just about finding a new piece of evidence or applying postmodern critical techniques to old evidence. Arranging a large number of facts and observations within a new framework can reveal new meanings, raise new questions, offer new insights, and stimulate discussion. Different biographical viewpoints and different chronological layouts – even different conceptual approaches regarding what history is – all help us to see the past differently, and to interact with it more personally, and to understand humanity over long periods of time.
REINTERPRETATION AND THE HISTORICAL CORRELATIVE
To what extent should we judge historical characters? Outside academia, is there any value in such judgments of individuals from the remote past? Are not historians’ opinions of people who died several hundred years ago as inconsequential as their opinions on the nameless individuals whose bodies once lay under prehistoric burial mounds?
In the past, a historian’s judgment has been seen as an essential part of his or her role. Professor Jack Simmons, reviewing a book on Elizabethan England in 1951, commented that there were four qualities of a great historian: common sense, justice, sympathy and imagination. With regard to justice he declared that this was
not impartiality – the anaemic, remote detachment of a man looking at the whole story from the superior height of a later age, but something much harder to attain: the true justice of a judge who sets out and weighs the evidence and then pronounces upon the question in dispute. The great historians have never shirked this duty of judgment. Rather they have regarded it as one of the main aims of their work.9
I have borne this review in mind ever since reading it, eight years ago; but I have increasingly found myself disagreeing with it. Or, rather, I have found that the point of view of ‘the historian’ in describing the past is a complicated one. While judgments concerning recent social history are important, because they may affect the way we live our lives today (for example, successes or failures within economic systems, or the National Health Service), the purpose of studying medieval subjects in the public arena is beyond the exercise of judgment; it is an examination of the experiences of the human race over time. It is much more important to understand the past sympathetically – to see why they did what they did, from their own point of view – than to pontificate about those who cannot possibly have known their judge, let alone defend themselves.
Given this suspicion that historical judgment is often unhelpful and unnecessary, this would be the ideal book in which to say that I will leave readers to make their own judgments on Henry V in the year 1415. All the facts that I consider pertinent have been laid out above, and readers may make of them what they will. But in each of my past biographies I have felt obliged to deliver a judgment on the character concerned, and I feel it necessary to do so here. The reason is primarily because reinterpretation has its value, if only as a riposte to what I consider the erroneous judgments of others. Another reason is that, as with the other books, I want to push the understanding of this man a little bit further, to explore the ambiguities and inconsistencies of his behaviour that are so revealing of his character. Finally I want to pursue the reinterpretation in order to say something of the consequences of Henry’s decisions in 1415. We cannot say Henry V was good or bad, or right or wrong, without making huge assumptions about moral values across the ages; but we can reinterpret his character and the consequences of his decisions, and that is the purpose of the remainder of this book.
Before addressing the question of what the year 1415 reveals about the character of Henry V, it is necessary to make an observation that is crucial to any historical judgment, reinterpretation or understanding of the past. When discussing any historical fact there is an automatic juxtaposition with its perceived equivalent in our own time, even if we do not realise it. For example, when we read about child-beating in the fourteenth century being seen as a sign of good parental care, and that the medieval father who did not beat his son might be seen as irresponsible, we automatically contrast this with ‘good practice’ in our own time, and realise that something has changed. Conversely, when we read a medieval poem about unrequited love, or pangs of hunger, or grief following the loss of a child, we automatically compare these emotions and sensations with our own experiences, and suspect that little has changed across the years. Either way, whether we are discussing change or continuity, we compare and contrast the past with our own time; we cannot forget our own norms, our own age.
The inevitable comparisons and contrasts we make when reading historical texts constitute a sort of correlative force that distorts our perception of the past. This is best explained by referring to the literary device of the ‘objective correlative’, outlined by T. S. Eliot in his essay ‘Hamlet and His Problems’ (first published in 1922). It is not any single literary image or statement that gives rise to an emotion when reading a piece of literature; it is a set of objects, a series of images. A series of juxtapositions can have far more emotive force than the facts in isolation. To take an example from this book, it is not just that the count of Richemont did not recognise his mother that causes an emotional reaction in the reader. Nor is it that his mother hid from him. Nor is it simply that he had been captured at Agincourt and was in England as a prisoner, or that they had not seen each other for many years, or that she had been forced to give up her children when she married Henry IV. It is the correlation of all these things. The emotional reaction develops from each fact in relation to the others. In Eliot’s words, ‘it is a set of objects, a situation, a chain of events which shall be the formula of that particular emotion’.
Something similar is operating when we read a history book. We are obtaining a historical sensation from the juxtaposition of behaviour in the past with the norms of our own time. We automatically correlate Richemont’s fifteenth-century shame with our own experience of shame. When we read of Henry V ordering women’s left arms to be broken, we experience a strong emotion through the contrast of this apparently barbaric act with acceptable behaviour in England today. When we read of the massacre of the prisoners, we contrast this order with our own post-Geneva Convention attitude to war (however many abuses of that convention we might be aware of). When we read of the burning of Jan Hus and John Claydon, we are appalled that these things were done by the Church and the state respectively in God’s name. The killing conflicts with the modern paradigm of Christian tolerance and mercy. These are just a few examples of what may be called ‘the historical correlative’ – the emotions or sensations arising from the automatic correlation of an event in the past with our own time. The fact is that every historical fact or event is subject to this effect, however slight – even the payment of a sum of money (how much or little something costs), or the time it took to travel from London to Paris (different in winter and summer), or the eating of beef for a Christmas feast (no turkeys). Most importantly of all, the historical correlative is a reaction in the reader’s mind – and therefore largely beyond the historian’s control.
The reason for explaining this point is that any interpretation or reinterpretation of a historical character or event is bound to be affected by the historical correlative. Every fact we may perceive, every suspicion we garner, every piece of knowledge, is automatically correlated, consciously or subconsciously, with the norms of our own time as we personally see them. Even if we make allowances and try to understand that society was far more violent and religious in the fifteenth century than it is now, most of us do not understand exactly how violent or religious it was, and so have no yardstick by which to measure Henry’s massacres or religious acts, and so we have no way of obviating the effect of the historical correlative. It demonstrates to us how all historical judgment is inevitably subjective. It is in this light, and only in this light, that we can proceed to mak
e judgments on the past. However accurately all the evidence is laid out, and however precisely it has been examined, historians’ judgments are fallible because their experience of life in a later century means their values are different, their understanding of common human behaviour is different, and the expectations of their readers are different.
HENRY V’S CHARACTER
A number of character traits were associated with Henry at the outset of this book. In particular, he was ‘circumspect, conscientious, solemn, firm, proud, virtuous and intense’. Through the year many events and facts have served to corroborate these personal traits in particular circumstances. For example, his circumspection is repeatedly evidenced in his reluctance to take any unnecessary risks on the Agincourt campaign: in his choosing a very difficult landing place to avoid encountering French hostility, not risking an all-out attack on the town of Harfleur, refusing to fight at Blanchetaque, and changing direction away from following the French army north from Péronne. In contrast, the risks he did take were all taken for good reasons – the decision to march to Calais was a strategic manoeuvre designed to encourage the French to attack; and the order to advance at Agincourt was given to catch the French off-guard. But while it would be possible to go through the above list of Henry’s character traits in this way and find examples to back up each one, this is unnecessary. These traits are the ones that chroniclers noted in him, and are the elements of his character that are not in doubt. A more valuable exercise in this book is to examine what the year 1415 reveals about him – the acts and decisions on which we may base a historical judgment of him in this year.
One element of Henry’s character that comes across very strongly in 1415 is his colossal ambition. He wanted to become a great king so desperately that he became one. In his ancestry – particularly in his role model, Edward III – he had an example of what great kingship could be, and he sought to emulate it in every important respect: in war, faith, great buildings, the administration of justice, and even in the way he was seen. For him kingship was itself a crusade. All its facets were part of a spiritual journey in which he saw himself delivering a perfect rule. To achieve any one of his aims would have required a certain determination, but to achieve them all required more than just the determination to do something; it required an over-arching ambition to be something; and that ‘something’ was of such a high order that it is fair to rank Henry as one of the most ambitious European monarchs who ever lived.
Ambitious people are rarely humble, and least of all kings. Thus Henry’s pride is something we come across time and time again in this book. This is not in itself surprising; but what is interesting is that his pride did not lead to complacency. He was not conceited by his success. He was somewhat sensitive to failure; his own failings were anathema to him, and he was sometimes a harsh critic of himself. When de Gaucourt managed to lead three hundred men into Harfleur after the town had been under siege for three days, exposing Henry’s lack of foresight, Henry’s response was immediate and swift – to send his brother to cut off the far side of the town. Likewise when there was a sortie from Harfleur on 15 September, Henry’s reaction was immediately to order an all-out attack on the Porte Leure. His instinct was to defend himself by immediately counter-attacking when he realised he had made a mistake.
Another striking trait that comes across in 1415 is his tenacity. Despite the delays putting back his expedition, he did not give up on his plans. Although the earl of Cambridge’s plot and the dangers of a Lollard rising in August led to calls for him to remain in England, he still went ahead with his invasion. Nor did he lose faith in himself when he lost more than 1,330 fighting men at Harfleur, and had to leave behind a further 1,200 men to guard the town. Still he went ahead with his march to Calais, even though he knew the French could summon a far larger army against him. He might have changed his strategy here and there, but he never gave up.
Given this ambition and tenacity, it is not surprising to find that Henry was serious to the point of being humourless, and sometimes bad-tempered. His orders were often issued under pain of the recipient suffering the king’s ‘grievous wrath’ if they were not fully and immediately complied with. One never reads of Henry enjoying himself; he did not hold jousts or any of the celebratory games that we associate with Edward III. He did not encourage any form of indulgence, as far as we can see, and he was deeply hostile to any behaviour that could be considered immoral. He did apparently play cards, chess and tables (a form of backgammon) with his fellow men (as we learn from accounts in other years); and one presumes he drank a lot of wine; but his focus remained on combat, God’s work, and contests of will.10 He was clearly a severe man; and once he had made up his mind on a point, he would not be argued with. One sees this in his actions against Scrope, and also in his refusal to accept the arguments of those trying to dissuade him from marching across France. It is also apparent in his occasional high-handedness – for instance, in the fine he imposed on the earl of March, or the reversal of the terms on which de Gaucourt and the other prisoners from Harfleur had surrendered.
All these traits – ambition, self-criticism, tenacity and a severe, almost puritanical personality – were closely related to his faith. This was extreme. With Edward II, Edward III and Richard II one can question whether they were normally or abnormally religious in comparison with their contemporaries, and make a case that their spirituality was not excessive for the period. However, Henry IV was considerably more serious about religion than his antecedents, and in his eldest son we have a king who was at the very height of religiosity in a deeply religious age. When we describe Edward III as a ‘warrior of God’ we do so because he was a war leader who was normally religious, and regularly used religious symbols (such as relics, offerings of devotion and pilgrimages) to inspire his army. In contrast, when we describe Henry V as a ‘warrior of God’ we mean to say that he believed God had made him a warrior, and in fighting he was doing God’s work.
There is no doubting Henry’s devotion – it is to be discerned in almost every aspect of his life. He did not choose to found normal monasteries, he founded houses for Celestines, Bridgettines and Carthusians: the most zealous orders. His choice of saints was similarly fervent – especially in following St John of Bridlington and the Holy Trinity. The provisions for Masses in his will were excessive, even for the time; and his attribution to God of the cause of victory in battle betokens a religious foundation for even the act of killing fellow Christians. The more one looks, the more one sees the signs of his deep religious conviction. These range from trivialities, such as his higher-than-usual payments to those attending his Maundy Thursday ceremonies, to profound and shocking statements, such as his later declaration that he was ‘the scourge of God come to punish God’s people for their sins’.11 No one can doubt that we find a greater degree of spirituality in Henry than among almost any of his contemporaries.
So how do we reconcile Henry’s religious devotion with his deliberate breaking of one of the Ten Commandments: thou shalt not kill? Moreover, how did he justify to himself breaking that Commandment in God’s name?
Various other instances have been noted in the text of acts that seem similarly irreligious. Pawning religious relics to pay for soldiers’ wages, dissolving the French monasteries, and failing to give the Englishmen who had died for him at Agincourt a proper Christian burial, are the most obvious. All these, like the massacre of the prisoners, seem ungodly acts. Yet they show that Henry was so convinced that he was a divinely inspired person that he believed he could go beyond the religious expectations of his day. This is most easily explained by referring to Henry IV’s killing of Archbishop Scrope in 1405. One might have thought that Henry’s father was acting in a godless manner; and many contemporaries thought so. However, it took a great deal of spiritual self-confidence for a king to be sure that he would not suffer divine vengeance for killing an archbishop. Thus the execution is evidence not of his profanity but of his religious conviction: Henry IV knew
where he stood with God. So it was with Henry V. In fact, Henry’s spiritual conviction was even more marked because he believed that everything he did was a religious act. As he himself put it in explaining his foundation of Syon Abbey: ‘he will turn where He wills’. His every deed was moved by God. His will was God’s will – as far as his subjects were concerned, the two were inseparable. Thus his war was God’s war, and his victories were God’s victories, much as the abbot of St Denis had preached in 1414: ‘God resolves wars according to His will’.12 What was different about Henry V was that he was so confident in his belief that God would deliver him victory that he was prepared to put his faith to the ultimate test.
Anyone looking for the source of Henry’s courage need look no further than this faith. As made clear in the passages describing Henry on Christmas Day 1414, he was vulnerable – he was aware that at any moment he might lose his crown, his friends’ support, his health and his life – but against this he set his faith. Henry really did believe God would protect him and make him victorious. We might say that his courage was the measure of his faith – for it was his faith that placed him in the front line of his army, so close to the enemy that he had a piece of his crown cut off with an axe. One does not need courage when one is unaware of danger, but when one is as open to attack as Henry was when wearing a royal surcoat on the battlefield, facing a larger army, one needs a huge amount of courage. His faith gave him sufficient.
Henry was lucky. Inordinately lucky. Just to take examples from 1415: he was lucky that Ralph Pudsay recaptured Mordach of Fife. He was lucky that the earl of March betrayed the earl of Cambridge and his fellow conspirators. He was lucky that Glendower died when he did. He was enormously lucky that the civil war in France did not end with the confirmation of the Peace of Arras in March, and that the duke of Burgundy repeatedly betrayed the French king. Henry was lucky to be warned by a Gascon about the ambush at Blanchetaque. He was lucky that he found a way across the Somme near Nesle and did not have to march his starving army even further upstream, and even luckier that his army was able to cross the Somme unopposed by the French. He was lucky that the duke of Bourbon decided to fight him without waiting for orders and reinforcements from Rouen, and he was lucky that the French leaders at Agincourt were disorganised and overestimated themselves. Above everything else, he was lucky that it rained so heavily at Agincourt on the night of 24 October. If it had not, the French wings might have been able to charge into the advancing English archers, scattering them before they could shoot enough arrows, thereby winning the battle for France and humiliating Henry and undermining his pretensions to be doing God’s work.
1415: Henry V's Year of Glory Page 62