In a Dark Wood Wandering

by Hella S. Haasse

  “Attack! Attack! Saint-Denis for France!” bawled the Constable, hoarse with exertion and excitement. Cursing, the knights tortured their steeds, but it was no use. Even those who had been able to move a few meters sank irrevocably back into the mud which had been churned since early morning by horses’ hooves.

  While he tugged at the reins, mumbling desperate sounds of encouragement to the horse, a morbid fear crept over Charles for the first time in his life. Through the small eye slits in his visor he saw the English approaching, deliberately, without haste. The archers were feeling for their full quivers. Charles sat on his horse in his black armor covered with scaly ironplate, as though immured in a wall of black-armored bodies; he could neither go forward to fight nor retreat backward. For him and his companions there was nothing to do but wait.

  The English stood and drew their bows; ten thousand arrows rained down, almost all at once, on the French vanguard. The Constable dashed away at full speed, hoping to bring the flanks of the army together at once; both squadrons began, with great effort, to move. The horses stumbled and trampled their way through the deep mud in the lowest part of the valley, tightly pressed against each other. But now more bowmen, who had lain in ambush for that purpose, rushed out of the woods in the slopes before Maisoncelles. The cavalry, struck on the flank by a storm of arrows, suffered heavy casualties: of the more than a thousand horsemen, only a few hundred had reached the small stretch of ground between both armies. The wounded, terrified horses no longer obeyed their riders. They reared sideways, snorting, onto the lines of armed knights and did more damage there than the English had done. Men and beasts tumbled over one another; bodies were smashed between steel and steel. Confusion spread through the packed lines; lances were shattered from the violent impact of the first row pressing backward.

  The English took quick advantage of the turmoil in the French vanguard; flinging their bows away and arming themselves with pikes and clubs, they fell upon and grappled with the knights who were half-sunk in the mud. Charles, in the heart of the French front lines, saw a chance to remain in the saddle. He had dropped his lance; now he wrenched his sword from its sheath. Boucicaut had leaped from his horse. Charles wanted to follow his example; he knew he should, but he could not draw his feet in their pointed iron shoes out of the stirrups; he saw it was too late. The English were approaching in a virtual mud-storm, shouting at the tops of their lungs. Javelins flew before them.

  The horse of the knight next to Charles was stricken mortally; it sagged sideways. The rider fell against Charles and almost knocked him out of the saddle. Charles’ warhorse sprang forward, wild with fright; the young man had only enough time to raise his shield, which he had taken from his page when the signal for attack was given. Blows and slashing strikes were already raining from all sides. “Bonne!” said Charles aloud. The blood buzzed in his head, he felt his steed stagger. Around him raged the tumult of battle: the shouts of fighters, the death shrieks of men and horses, the clatter of weapons against armor, and the dull thud of thousands of trampling feet. The English foot soldiers moved through the ranks like reapers through a field of grain; with both hands they swung their spiked clubs and their short axes. The knights and their followers, driven together into groups, defended themselves as well as they could, but they could hardly move. The fallen lay in heaps; they formed barricades, hills of corpses of men and horses, shields and weapons.

  Charles fought like one possessed. There was room in his brain for only one thought: he did not want to die, he wanted to live, live and return to Bonne, to Bonne, to Bonne. Without knowing what he did, he muttered the name incessantly. To the rhythm of that beloved name, he hacked at the men who pressed him from all sides like a swarm of hornets. Mortal terror lent him a strength which he had never realized that he possessed. He beat off the attack until his horse sank under him, struck by a javelin. Nevertheless Charles managed to stay on his feet, up to his ankles in a mash of mud and blood. He continued to fight with undiminished energy; he killed three or four Englishmen, but he began to lose ground against his attackers. While he tried to parry the blows, he glanced about for help. But everywhere around him he saw the same thing: desperate defense ending in defeat. He fancied he saw Alençon still on horseback, with his banner in rags around his neck; he bent forward, his axe struck home, the dead piled up all around him; his horse’s saddle-cloth was soaked with blood. Charles saw more. He saw a corpse lying in front of him; he recognized it by its armor. It was Philippe de Nevers, Burgundy’s youngest brother, who, despite the Duke of Burgundy’s injunctions and threats, had joined the French because he thought it was shameful to stand aside. He lay on his back with his arms spread wide, on top of his squire and a number of knights of his retinue; his visor was open. Charles turned icy cold with fear and horror. He redoubled his efforts to free himself from his attackers. He wanted to escape to the center or the rear, where there was as yet no fighting. I want to throw off my armor, he thought, dizzy and confused. At that instant he received a heavy blow to the head. A burning pain shot through his neck and back. He thought only that this was the end. Then he fell in the mud beside his dead horse.

  At first he did not know where he was. Something very heavy lay over his legs; something lighter, soft and limp, over his shoulder and breast. He tried to move but his body felt stiff and painful; a hard band squeezed his loins, arms and wrists. It seemed as though he were floating in a tepid, viscous liquid. Suddenly the truth shot through him: I am alive, he wanted to say, but his tongue would not obey him. He opened his eyes with an effort; his eyelids seemed glued together with the same lukewarm liquid. He knew now that it was blood. He still wore his visor; and since he could not move his arms, he saw no chance of opening it. I must fight on, he thought, more sharply conscious now. At the same moment he realized that he heard no sounds. There were of course the usual noises, but not the cries, the roar of the battlefield. Strangely enough, he heard the wind, and men’s voices at some distance from him. Something which jingled and ratded was being dragged across the ground. He thought he heard the same sound further away now—not in one place but everywhere. However, despite the voices and the dragging and clanking, a silence prevailed, which could only mean one thing: the battle was over, the contest decided.

  What day was it? How long had he lain here? He moved, but a fierce pain forced him back to immobility. Before the eye slits of his visor there was only a grey luster. Something opaque was covering his head—a cloth, a flag or a tunic. That weight on his legs—he shuddered. He lay among the dead; he must wait until someone came to look for him. Bonne, he thought, and was filled with anxiety. What if they did not find him, what if they let him die here under a heap of corpses? He opened his mouth again, but no sound came from his lips. He exerted his strength to the utmost. Something seemed to tear inside his breast; excruciating pain like a knife thrust lanced between his ribs. But he managed to roll over halfway. He could not move his legs. It seemed an endless time before he was able to draw his right arm toward him; he had to incline his head toward his arm to open his visor. It was jammed, but he managed to twist it open. He lay in the midst of a jumbled mass of corpses, twisted metal, splintered lances. A horse had fallen across his legs; he was sure it could not be his horse. He did not see his horse; it probably lay somewhere under the corpses behind him. A man lay against his shoulder. He wore a starred tunic. Charles could not identify the other dead; they wore closed helmets or were so maimed or covered with congealed blood that their faces were no longer recognizable.

  Slowly Charles raised himself until he could look out over the rampart of corpses. He was still so stunned from his fall, so dazed from pain and loss of blood, that the sight of the field of Agincourt could not fill him with terror or amazement. He saw the dead lying as far as the eye could see, heaps of dead—dead men in armor, dead men in gaily colored tunics. Where the French army had stood on the slope between Agincourt and Tramecourt, there were now only trampled fragments of tents, broken carts, g
reat heaps of war materiel.

  Evening was drawing in, rain clouds scudded low over the landscape, for the wind had picked up. It was not yet dark. In this hour between light and darkness, men moved in countless groups over the field. Charles recognized them immediately: they were the English bowmen. Such fellows as these had struck him down. What they were doing now was clear enough. They pulled swords, daggers and shields from the piles of corpses, tore off banners and mantles, and stooped searching for valuables—rings, buckles and shoulder-belts. Swiftly and deftly they stripped the dead of helmets and armor; slowly and thoroughly they searched through the heaps of cadavers on the field. Weapons they flung into high piles; valuables were secreted in the pouches which each man carried with him. The looters had not yet reached the place where Charles lay, but he feared they would reach him before midnight. He had only one chance: if the darkness prevented them from discovering him, perhaps he could try to reach the castle of Agincourt by creeping by night through the forest. The Lord of Agincourt was a vassal of Burgundy, but anything was better than being taken prisoner by the English.

  He slid cautiously back in the mud and crept as close as possible to the dead. Perhaps the marauders would not reach him. His head throbbed with unbearable pain, and he was thirsty. He sank feverishly into a state of semi-consciousness. He thought that he lay in bed in Blois between cool sheets; Bonne approached him with a cup in her hand, holding wine or water, he did not know which. “Let me drink,” he whispered and now he really felt moisture between his lips.

  It was no dream. Two men supported him under the arms, while a third gave him drink. They had removed his helmet, his head felt wet and cold from blood and perspiration. He was alternately dragged and carried over what seemed to him an endless distance through muddy hollows, up a slope, over rough roots and uneven forest ground. He could not keep his head erect; he lost consciousness again and again. Finally he felt himself set down on the ground near a fire, where men spoke to one another in low voices. The sounds of their strange language melted together in one murmur. He was only vaguely aware that his armor had been removed; after that he knew nothing more for a long time.

  When he opened his eyes again, he was lying on a straw litter in a tent. The curtain before the opening had been pushed aside; he could look out over a row of barns and hovels; unmistakably those of Maisoncelles. A sentry stood before the tent. It was bright daylight. There was great activity; the English were getting ready to break camp. Pack animals, heavily laden with war booty, passed slowly by. With a shudder, Charles saw the blue and gold banner of France, defaced, torn, stained with blood and mud, laying amid the arms and shields piled high on top of the wagons. He saw a cuirass on top of a cart; it gleamed white with a gold sun on the breast.

  “That is Alencon’s armor,” Charles said aloud.

  A man who sat huddled on a heap of straw in the rear of the tent—Charles had not noticed him before—replied.

  “Aye, my lord, there go the beautiful toys of France. Gaudy armor and silk flags. Isn’t it finally plain now that a war cannot be won this way?”

  Charles turned with an effort. “Boucicaut!” he cried. The Marshal raised his thin face and nodded slowly. He wore only a grimy, torn leather underjacket and a pair of shoes. He was not wounded. Charles noticed that he himself was naked under his hide covering; they had bandaged his legs.

  “You are not seriously wounded, thank God,” Boucicaut whispered hoarsely. “You will be able to sit on a horse today.”

  “Where are we going?”

  Boucicaut sighed. After a moment he answered.

  “Wherever it pleases King Henry, Monseigneur. I’ve heard that we will take ship for England at Calais.”

  “Exile?” Charles sat straight up, despite the pain in his limbs. “No, no, I don’t want that. It is impossible,” he cried vehemently. “The Dauphin will surely offer ransom for me.”

  “Don’t count on that, Monseigneur.” Boucicaut shrugged in dejection. “That will not happen soon. We are a large company; we represent a vast amount of money: you, Messeigneurs de Bourbon and Richmont, the Counts d’Eu and Vendome and about 1,500 nobles. I have seen the Sires de Harcourt and Craon and numerous other people I know. Great names all, for whom King Henry can demand a high price. A good deal of water will flow to the sea before an agreement is reached about us. But we can’t complain: we have our own pride and ignorance to thank for this catastrophe.”

  The possibility of death disturbed Charles less than this new prospect of exile in a foreign country. He sat staring straight before him, shivering with cold and weakness, his brow knitted in tense reflection.

  “I must send a messenger at once to my wife and brother,” he said uneasily. “We can sell our castles and territories. My father-in-law is in Paris: surely he will be able to exert some influence.”

  “You can try, Monseigneur.” Boucicaut shook his head dubiously. “But I fear that you would be the last person King Henry would release. You are the most important of the prisoners; you are being most specially treated. King Henry’s personal physician has attended you and bandaged you himself. It is to the advantage of the English to keep you healthy.”

  The guard who stood before the tent stirred. Charles and the Marshal looked toward the entrance and saw three men approaching: an old knight with a stern, pale face, a soldier carrying clothing over his arm, and a servant with a tray holding white bread and wine.

  The knight bowed stiffly in Charles’ direction and spoke slowly in French. “My name is Thomas Herpingham, counsellor to King Henry. I understand and speak your language. The King requests that you put on these clothes and eat. Tomorrow at sunrise we leave for Calais. There will be horses for you and the Marshal.”

  He paused, but Charles did not reply. Herpingham coughed and continued carefully.

  “Among the prisoners is a certain de Nery, who says he is your squire. If you set much store by it, we will send him to you.”

  Charles nodded. He was no longer listening to the Englishman; he was devising a plan. Jean de Nery must escape and carry the news to Bonne. The thought of his wife filled Charles with helpless rage. There she sat now in Blois, still ignorant of what had happened to him. When would he see her again? Reckless plots crossed his mind: he would slip out of the tent that night, seize a weapon and a horse, break out of the camp and ride at full gallop across Picardy to Paris …

  Herpingham took his leave; now the two men brought forward the food and clothing. With indifference Charles allowed himself to be helped into jacket and overgarment; bread and wine, however, he refused. Later they came to fetch Boucicaut away and Jean de Nery took his place. From his squire Charles learned how the battle had gone. In a relatively short time the English had hacked the vanguard of the French army to pieces; those whom they did not kill were carried off in captivity behind the lines. Afterward, under the personal command of King Henry, the English fell upon the French center which had continued to make a stand. When the troops in the rear guard became aware of the slaughter, they fled to the hills. The center did not hold for long: Alençon, who had boasted that he would pluck the crown from King Henry’s head, was killed almost at once, and this drained the knights of the remnant of their courage. With their surrender the battle was over.

  Then while the English were sorting out their prisoners, an alarm sounded from Maisoncelles. A horseman rode at full gallop bringing the message that the Gascons and Bretons from the French rear guard were approaching the field again by a roundabout route, and groups of them seemed intent on pillaging the camp at Maisoncelles. King Henry commanded his men to take battle positions once more; and so that the soldiers could be free to protect themselves from attack from the rear, the prisoners had to be killed on the spot. Two hundred soldiers were assigned to perform the executions. But while the English were preparing to repel the approaching troops, the latter appeared to have abandoned—if they had ever had them—all intentions of mounting an attack. They were seen fleeing over the hills, with
out so much as a backward glance. The prisoners from the vanguard, held together under guard in another part of the battlefield, were spared.

  “Who was killed?” asked Charles, when the squire had finished his report. The youth whispered a long list of names: d’Albret, the Dukes of Alencon and Bar, the Sires de Dampierre, Dammarten, Salm, Roussy and Vaudemont—all those who only two days before had sat together in the Constable’s tent so confident of victory. In addition, the governors of Maon, Caen and Maux had fallen, along with the martial Archbishop of Sens and innumerable princes and nobles, with their squires, heralds, horsemen and grooms.

  “They say we lost more than 10,000 men, my lord,” Jean de Nery said, with downcast eyes. “Ten thousand! And the English 1,500, at the most.”

  Toward evening King Henry himself entered the tent, attended by Thomas Herpingham, who held a torch in his hand. The King drew the leather curtain behind him and stood beside the prisoner’s straw cot. Henry had steely blue eyes and a narrow oval face with a high forehead and rather full lips. His hair was cropped short on his round head. He was shorter than Charles but his shoulders were broad and his arms and legs strong and sturdy. Over his hauberk he wore a tunic with the red lions of England rampant.

  Charles tried to rise from the straw to greet his visitor. King Henry watched his efforts in silence for a few moments before he said curtly, “Remain lying down, fair cousin; you cannot stand.”

  His French was almost flawless, but his strong accent made his words sound rough. Charles bent his head and thanked him for the courtesy; he remained lying at Henry’s feet, supported by his elbows.

  “How goes it, fair cousin?” asked the King, but there was no trace of friendliness in his eyes.

  Charles replied dully, “Well, my lord.”

  “They tell me you do not wish to eat or drink,” pursued the King. “Is it true?”

  “It is true that I am fasting,” said Charles. “It can hardly surprise you that I have no desire for food.”