Henry V as Warlord

by Seward, Desmond

  The author of the Gesta was among the other chaplains, the sick and the supernumaries who stayed near the baggage. He says that he and his fellow English priests were so frightened that he believed the French to be thirty times larger than the English army, and that he and his companions prayed throughout ‘in fear and trembling’. Nonetheless, he kept his head sufficiently to watch the battle and gives the best eye-witness account of it.6

  Henry heard three Masses and took Communion before donning a burnished armour, over which he wore a velvet and satin surcoat, embroidered in gold with the leopards and lilies; on his helmet was a coronet, ‘marvellous rich’, studded with rubies, sapphires and many pearls. Then, riding a small grey pony – a page leading a great war-horse behind him – he rode up and down the line in front of his troops. His eve-of-battle speech struck a familiar note – he ‘was come into France to recover his lawful inheritance and that he had good and just cause to claim it’. He warned the archers that the French had sworn to cut three fingers off the right hand of every English bowman captured. ‘Sirs and fellows,’ he promised his army, ‘as I am true king and knight, for me this day shall never England ransom pay.’ When he had finished they shouted back, ‘Sir, we pray God give you a good life and the victory over your enemies!’

  In the justified belief that it would be best for the English to open the battle, the French remained motionless, some 700 yards away. After waiting for four hours Henry decided that his cold, wet, hungry and weary men had stood there quite long enough and resolved to make the French attack. He ordered Erpingham to take the archers forward just within range of the enemy. When Sir Thomas signalled that he had done so, by throwing his wand of office into the air, the king gave the command, ‘Banners advance! In the name of Jesus, Mary and St George!’ His men therefore, as was their custom, first knelt and kissed the earth on which they made the sign of the cross, placing a morsel of soil in their mouths in token of desire for communion. Then, trumpets and tabors sounding (‘which greatly encouraged the heart of every man’), they marched forward as steadily as the soggy ground permitted, shouting in unison at intervals, ‘St George!’ The little army was now within 300 yards of the vast host of the enemy, many of its men bedraggled and lacking equipment, especially the archers who went barefoot because of the mud. The latter replanted their stakes, a horse’s breast high and angled so as to impale, and began to shoot. Volley after volley hissed up into the air for a hundred feet before descending noisily onto the Frenchmen who kept their heads down beneath the arrow storm – even if few arrows penetrated their expensive plate armour the clatter must have been unnerving.

  Now the first line of the enemy, 8,000 strong, began to advance, roaring hollowly from inside their close helmets their traditional war cry of ‘Montjoie! Saint Denis!’ At the same time 500 mounted French men-at-arms, led by the Sieurs Guillaume de Saveuse and Clignet de Brébant, charged the English on each flank. The archers repulsed them with ease. Three horses were impaled on the stakes and their riders killed, among them Saveuse. What drove the enemy horse off, however, was arrow fire under which their poor mounts became unmanageable, screaming and bolting back through those advancing on foot. They knocked many over, throwing the line into confusion. They also galloped over their gunners and catapult men, besides trampling down the sparse contingent of French archers and crossbowmen. Their example was contagious – after only one discharge the entire enemy artillery withdrew rather than face English arrows.

  The first line of the dismounted French men-at-arms trudged grimly on, often sinking knee-deep into the mud on account of their weight, an exhausting business for a heavily-armoured man. Their ranks included the greatest names of France, royal as well as noble, for among them were the Dukes of Bourbon and Orleans. The English archers shot point-blank at their flanks – armour-piercing range. To avoid the murderous hail the French flinched away towards the centre, bunching up, so that the line turned into a dense scrum. Nevertheless they came doggedly on, though trying to keep away from the wedges of archers between the English battles who were also shooting at them. At last three tightly packed columns of French infantry crashed into the English men-at-arms, with such an impact that the latter were flung two or three yards back.

  But the French were packed so close together that they could not raise their arms to use their weapons, while those in front were pushed over by those behind. Once down it was almost impossible for them to regain their feet. The fallen were soon pressed further down by more and more men falling on top of them in ever growing heaps; many drowned in mud or were suffocated by the bodies above. (John Hardyng, a former squire of Hotspur’s who was present, says specifically that ‘more were dead through press than our men might have killed’.) As soon as their arrows were exhausted, the English archers seized ‘swords, hatchets, mallets, axes, falcon-beaks and other weapons’ – even stakes according to the Gesta – and rushed at their enemies. Lightly clad, they jumped on top of the prostrate men-at-arms, frequently three deep, to get at their companions. Yet more Frenchmen were pushed off their feet and lost their balance as the second line came up behind.

  The English men-at-arms were saved from being similarly pushed over because there were so few of them. An exception was the fat Duke of York, who was trampled under foot and suffocated. They were able to use their own weapons, at close quarters and to maximum effect. Tito Livio, who had met many who had been in the battle, says that Henry fought ‘like a maned lion seeking his prey’. Some Frenchmen fought back ferociously and Tito’s patron, the Duke of Gloucester, ‘sore wounded in the hams with a sword’, fell half-dead, with his feet towards the enemy. The king stood over him, fighting off assailants until his brother could be picked up and carried to the rear.7

  The Duke of Alençon, a prince of the Blood, who had led the second French line, was one of those in the mêlée round Gloucester. He had left the scrum for a moment, mounting a horse to go back and rally the growing number of deserters. Failing, he returned and, together with a handful of French men-at-arms, attacked Gloucester’s party. One source says he hacked a fleuret from Henry’s helmet. At last, beaten to his knees, Alençon surrendered to the king and removed his helmet, whereupon a berserk English knight cut him down with an axe.

  The French were everywhere lying in heaps, sometimes higher than a man on his feet. Many were alive, prevented by their armour from rising. The English finished some off as they lay like stranded turtles, thrusting a dagger through their visors, but the majority – perhaps as many as 3,000 – were pulled out and sent to the rear as prisoners for ransom.

  Suddenly a shout went up that the third, mounted, French line was about to attack. The Duke of Brabant, a younger brother of the Duke of Burgundy, and another prince of the Blood, had arrived late. Being without a surcoat he borrowed a tabard from his herald and then tried to persuade the French reserve to go into action. In the event he charged almost alone and was eventually unhorsed; because of his tabard he was unrecognized and had his throat cut. It is possible that this happened at a slightly earlier stage in the battle. What is certain is that after the rout of the second line two brave French noblemen, the Counts of Marle and Fauquembergues, swore to kill Henry or perish and prepared to launch a final despairing charge with a mere 600 men.

  The king was already uneasy enough about the prisoners at the rear. Just before the start of the battle local peasants had raided his baggage but had been driven off. It was possible they might try to raid it again. When it looked as though he might expect a serious attack from the third line and that it was possible the captured men-at-arms might break free and join their comrades, he ordered their liquidation. His men were horrified, not from compassion but at the prospect of losing such valuable ransoms. Henry promised to hang anyone who refused to obey. He detailed 200 archers to slaughter the prisoners; in the words of a Tudor chronicler, they were ‘sticked with daggers, brained with pole-axes, slain with mauls’, and finished off by being ‘paunched in fell and cruel wise’.8 We k
now from a survivor, Gilbert de Lannoy, that one batch were burnt to death in the hut where they were confined. Those spared were worth great sums, such as princes of the Blood like the Duke of Orleans. The king stopped the slaughter when he realized that he was not threatened by a serious attack from the French third line and was throwing money away.

  This massacre of prisoners in 1415 is Henry V’s one generally acknowledged peccadillo. Almost every one of his English biographers and historians tries to absolve him of guilt, referring to the lack of condemnation by contemporary English chroniclers, or to ‘the standards of the time’. In reality, by fifteenth-century standards, to massacre captive, unarmed noblemen who, according to the universally recognized international laws of chivalry, had every reason to expect to be ransomed if they surrendered formally, was a peculiarly nasty crime – especially by someone who constantly claimed to be a ‘true knight’. The chronicler Waurin notes with horror that it was done ‘in cold blood’ (‘de froit sang’).

  The charge by Marle and Fauquembergues had been routed without difficulty, since by then the English not only outnumbered them but were protected by ramparts of French corpses. Both Marle and Fauquembergues lost their lives. The remainder of the French third line, its nerve broken, rode off the field. In under four hours the English king and his tiny army had routed a force many times larger. For a loss of 500 men at most they had slain nearly 10,000 of their opponents, if one includes the prisoners they had put to death. Besides York, the English notables killed numbered only one peer, the young Earl of Suffolk (whose father had perished of fever at Harfleur), and a handful of knights – among them that redoubtable Welsh veteran Davy Gam with his two son-in-laws, Walter Lloyd and Roger Vaughan. The French had lost the Dukes of Alençon, Bar and Brabant, the Count of Nevers (another brother of the Duke of Burgundy) with eight other counts, ninety-two barons, 1,500 knights and countless gentlemen. Among the prisoners who had survived the massacre were the Dukes of Bourbon and Orleans, the Counts of Eu, Richemont and Vendôme, with 1,500 gentlemen. The rest of the day was spent searching for overlooked prisoners and cutting the throats of the disabled or worthless. The bodies of the English dead were taken to a big barn at Maisoncelles which was piled high with faggots and then set alight to burn throughout the night as a funeral pyre. That evening Henry’s most distinguished captives served him at supper on bended knee. God had spoken, giving his verdict on the trial by battle – now he knew that he was in truth King of England, and of France too. He named his victory ‘Agincourt’ after the nearby castle.

  It began to rain again. Next morning, wearier than ever, the English army resumed their march to Calais through the downpour. The troops were weighed down with expensive armours looted from the dead and from their prisoners. Still seriously short of rations, they now had to feed the prisoners as well. When the army reached Calais on 29 October its welcome left much to be desired. Many men were refused entry, while those admitted had to sell their armours and their prisoners to pay for the extortionate prices they were charged for provisions.

  The king lodged at his castle of Guisnes outside Calais, where he imprisoned his own extremely valuable captives. Understandably, he was in an excellent mood, telling the Duke of Orleans that his victory was scarcely to be wondered at ‘for never were there greater disorders, sensuality and vices than now prevail in France, which it is horrible to hear described’. It would be many years before some of these prisoners came home; Marshal Boucicault would die in captivity at Methley in Yorkshire in 1421 while Orleans was not released from the Tower of London until 1440. Even so, they were luckier than many humbler fellow captives later sold as servants in England by the Calais merchants (who had bought them from the troops) when it was found that they could not pay their ransoms.

  So certain was Henry of God’s favour that he proposed to his commanders that the army should attack some neighbouring French town. They listened with incredulity, pointing out he had very few troops, many of them badly wounded while others were still suffering from the bloody flux and that everyone wanted to go home. He had to agree to return to England.

  The Sieurs d’Estouteville and de Gaucourt, with others paroled at Harfleur, came, as ‘faithful captives’, to Calais and surrendered to the king. Now he was ready to depart, sailing on Saturday 16 November during a raging storm. Two ships sank and the French prisoners on board the royal ship found the voyage worse than their worst moments at Agincourt – they were deeply impressed by their captor’s seemingly cast-iron stomach.9

  VIII

  ‘To Teach the Frenchmen Courtesy’

  ‘So great was the love that they had to the king in every way; and so much the desire of his return, that a right great number of them went into the water upon their feet until they came unto the king’s ships, purposing to bear him to the land in their arms.’

  The First English Life of King Henry the Fifth

  ‘A giant that was full grim of sight,

  To teach the Frenchmen courtesy.’

  Inscription on a statue welcoming Henry home to London

  At home, England had been deeply concerned about the fate of the king and his army. There was no news for three weeks, during which alarming rumours had circulated. At last, on the day that Henry marched into Calais, triumphant letters from him reached the Chancellor, Bishop Beaufort and the Mayor of London, Nicholas Wolton (popularly known as ‘Witless Nick’). The Chancellor read the glorious tidings from the steps of St Paul’s and then the bells of all the City’s churches pealed until sunset. The news swiftly travelled throughout the entire country, which rejoiced, relief heightening everyone’s joy.

  The king and his battered fleet sailed into Dover, just as night was falling, on 16 November. They had been running before the wind to survive the storm, which was why they had made so fast a crossing. They were greeted by a frantically cheering crowd, some of whom rushed waist-high into the waves to carry Henry ashore on their shoulders. He spent Sunday quietly at Dover, and then rode to Canterbury where he spent two days, offering thanks at the shrine of St Thomas, before going up to Eltham the following Friday. He entered his capital on Saturday 23 November.

  First he was welcomed at Blackheath by several Londoners, who had been waiting for him since dawn. They were headed by Witless Nick and the twenty-four aldermen in their scarlet robes, while everyone else who could afford it wore red robes in token of rejoicing. Having congratulated the king, the citizens hurried back before him to London to see the pageant which had been prepared. When he came to London Bridge at about 10.00 a.m. he was greeted at the Surrey side by huge effigies of a giant and giantess erected on top of the bridge tower, and by trumpets. The giant was armed with a battle-axe and held out great keys as though offering them to Henry. A xenophobic inscription on it declaimed:

  A gyaunt that was full grym of syght,

  To teche the Frensshmen curtesye.1

  An inscription on the tower read ‘THE CITY OF THE KING OF JUSTICE’. In the middle of the bridge were two tall pillars of simulated marble and jasper, one with a golden antelope bearing a shield displaying the royal arms, the other with a golden lion grasping a staff from which floated the royal standard. Above the tower at the far end stood a beautiful statue of St George in armour, his left hand holding a scroll which hung down over the battlements and was inscribed ‘TO GOD ALONE BE HONOUR AND GLORY’. In a house next to the bridge choristers dressed as angels, with gilt wings and gilded faces, sang ‘Blessed is He who cometh in the name of the Lord.’

  The tower of the conduit at the Tun in Cornhill was covered in crimson and flanked by white-haired prophets in golden copes, who released a flock of sparrows and sang a psalm when Henry rode by. The tower of the conduit at the beginning of Cheapside – London’s richest street – had a green canopy emblazoned with the City’s arms; next to it stood more patriarchs representing the twelve apostles and twelve English kings who likewise sang a psalm of jubilation when the king drew near. These offered him loaves wrapped in silver leav
es and wine from the conduit, just as Melchizedek offered bread and wine to Abraham when he returned from his victory over the four kings. An entire wooden castle had been built round the cross in Cheapside, with elaborate towers and ramparts. Beautiful maidens came forth from it to welcome Henry, singing and dancing before him with timbrels – ‘as though to another David coming from the slaying of Goliath, who might very suitably represent the arrogant French’, comments the Gesta smugly. The maidens sang, in English, ‘Welcome, Henry ye fifte, Kynge of Englond and of Fraunce’, showering the monarch with laurel leaves and gold coins, and then singing Te Deum. The tower of the final conduit before St Paul’s was decorated with niches in which stood ‘exquisite young maidens’ holding gold cups from which they gently blew golden leaves down on the king as he went forward to dismount and enter the cathedral for a Mass of thanksgiving presided over by eighteen vested prelates.

  ‘The City was decked in all the raiment of gladness, and rightfully there was great joy among the people,’ says Adam of Usk. The author of the Gesta, who was an eyewitness, and to whom we owe most of this account, gives eloquent testimony to the enthusiasm of spectators of all classes: