Having made their farewells to Mistress Quickly, the three rogues set out for Southampton with the boy, dreaming of plunder rather than glory on the battlefields of France.
Meanwhile, in his palace, the French king was addressing his nobles. Everybody could see he was a worried man.
‘The English are coming,’ he warned. ‘We’ve had them on our soil in the past, and it was never a happy experience. We must fortify our towns, strengthen our garrisons. There are dangerous times ahead.’
The dauphin, who had insulted Henry with his gift of tennis balls, looked at his father. ‘It’s good policy always to be ready for war,’ he said, ‘even when no war threatens. So by all means look to our preparations, but let’s not go over the top here: let’s not panic.’ He smiled. ‘We should act as though we’ve learned that the English intend to organise a morris dance, or something.’
There were gasps among the nobles, but the young man scoffed. ‘King Henry’s a joke, I tell you. A flabby layabout. As long as he’s on the throne, France has nothing to fear from England.’
The Constable of France shook his head. ‘You underestimate him, young man. He may have behaved foolishly in his youth, but all that’s behind him now. Ask the messengers you sent to his court – the ambassadors. They’ve seen him, and his advisers. They know it’s not a fool we’re dealing with.’
The dauphin shook his head. ‘You’re wrong, my lord high constable, but no matter. It’s probably better to overestimate one’s opponent than to underestimate him.’
The French king broke in. ‘We believe King Henry is strong, and we’ll prepare accordingly. Remember, he’s descended from a line of monarchs who’ve haunted us down the years.’
A messenger approached. ‘Ambassadors have come from Henry, King of England, sire. They ask to speak to your Majesty.’
‘Bring them in.’ The king turned to his counsellors. ‘See how he pursues us already, my friends.’
The dauphin pulled a face. ‘A coward will chase a fleeing foe. Turn on ’em, Father. Show ’em you’re not to be messed with.’
King Henry’s ambassador proved to be the Duke of Exeter. The French king looked at him. ‘From our brother of England?’
Exeter nodded. ‘From him, your Majesty, and he requires that you surrender to him that which is rightfully his: namely, the French Crown.’ He held out a sheaf of papers. ‘Look at this pedigree. It shows my king to be directly descended from Edward the third, who sat on the throne you occupy now only as a result of happy coincidence.’
The French king gazed at Exeter. ‘And if I don’t surrender my crown, what then?’
‘Why then,’ growled Exeter, ‘your country and its people will suffer as never before. That’s the whole of my message, unless the dauphin is here.’ The duke smiled thinly. ‘My king has another message for him.’
The French king nodded. ‘I need time to think about what you have said. You’ll have my answer tomorrow.’
‘And the dauphin?’ enquired the dauphin. ‘What does your king send to him?’
‘His scorn and defiance,’ Exeter replied. ‘Slight regard, contempt. He wishes the dauphin to know that unless he has a favourable reply from your king, he will make the dauphin most bitterly regret his mocking gift of tennis balls.’
The dauphin sneered. ‘If Henry has a favourable answer from my king, it will be against the dauphin’s will. The dauphin wants nothing more than to fight England, which is why he sent the balls.’
‘Yes, and Henry’ll make your Paris Louvre shake for it,’ spat Exeter.
‘Tomorrow,’ interrupted the French king, ‘Henry shall have my answer in full.’
‘I’d better leave now,’ replied Exeter, ‘before he comes himself to see what’s taking so long.’
The French king watched through troubled eyes as the ambassador bowed and withdrew.
The next day, King Henry had the French reply, and he didn’t like it. The French king was offering Henry the hand in marriage of his daughter Katherine, with a few worthless dukedoms thrown in. No mention of the French Crown. The English army was drawn up near the town of Harfleur. Henry’s response was to besiege the town and to launch an assault on it.
Harfleur was heavily fortified. A breach was made in its wall by cannon fire, but every time the English soldiers tried to get through it, they were beaten back. Seeing his troops beginning to lose heart, King Henry spurred his horse into their midst and, waving his sword, cried out to rally them.
‘Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more; or close the wall up with our English dead.’
It thrilled the soldiers to hear the king call them his friends. They regrouped, determined not to let him down.
Henry saw their revived determination and cried, ‘Follow your spirit; and upon this charge cry, God for Harry, England and Saint George!’
As the English troops charged, roaring towards the breach, Nym and his disreputable friends fell in at the rear.
‘On!’ cried Bardolph. ‘On on on, to the breach, to the breach!’
‘Hang on,’ gasped Nym, ‘it looks a bit dodgy to me; a bit dangerous, and I’ve only got the one life. The whole thing’s too tasty if you ask me, and that’s the penultimate troof.’
‘You can say that again,’ growled Pistol. ‘There’s altogether too much blood for my liking, too much heroic sacrifice. Shed-loads of immortal fame and not enough immortality, and that’s about as penultimate as you can get.’
‘Wish I was in a London ale house,’ moaned the boy. ‘I’d swap fame and glory for a foaming pint and homeland security any time.’
A man approached, looking fierce. His name was Fluellen and he was Welsh. He roared at the four rogues. ‘Shift your bums, you slackers, d’you want to live for ever, or what? Get into that breach, NOW!’ He used the flat of his sword to drive them forward.
Pistol appealed to him. ‘Leave it out, Taff. Stop yelling at us, quit shoving. Be a bit more whatsit – quintessential, OK?’
Ignoring the slackers’ pleas, Fluellen shepherded them towards the action.
The boy watched them go. He was starting to have doubts about his three adult friends. Adult they might be, but they weren’t men. In fact, the three together wouldn’t amount to one real man. They were petty thieves, chancers and cowards, nothing more. He resolved to break with them once and for all.
Having driven the three slackers to their duty, Fluellen became involved in a dispute with a brother officer, an Irishman by the name of Macmorris. Their argument was about the proper way to wage war, but there were racial overtones. As the men fratched, news came that the French were requesting discussions with the English. The quarrel had to be suspended, but the two men parted on unfriendly terms.
King Henry and his retinue met the Governor of Harfleur at the city gates. The king was in no mood to mess about – he laid it on the line.
‘This is the last chance you’ll get to surrender,’ he told the governor. ‘Yield now, and I’ll treat your citizens with mercy. Fight on, and my soldiers will destroy Harfleur and show no pity in dealing with your people. I shan’t be able to control them. They’ll rape your young women and spit your infants on pikes, while their mothers howl in vain. They’ll put young men to the sword and dash out the brains of old men against your walls. What d’you say, Governor? Will you fight on and be responsible for your people’s ghastly fate, or surrender and obtain mercy for them?’
The governor shook his head and sighed. ‘We expected the dauphin,’ he murmured. ‘He was to ride to our rescue at the head of a great army. Now he says he’s not ready to lift so great a siege. We have no option but to surrender.’
The English entered Harfleur in triumph, but winter was coming and many of the soldiers were sick. King Henry directed his uncle Exeter to occupy the city with part of the army, and to fortify it against the French. He would lead the rest of his soldiers back to Calais for rest and recuperation.
The loss of Harfleur was a crippling blow to French morale. Many
now believed the English advance to be unstoppable; the enemy would lay waste to all of France and place King Henry on the throne.
At the palace, Princess Katherine prevailed upon Alice, an English-speaking maid, to begin teaching her the language ahead of Henry’s arrival.
The French king was equally pessimistic. ‘Henry’s crossed the Somme already,’ he fretted.
‘Yes,’ said the Constable of France, ‘and if we don’t take a stand, we might as well leave the country altogether and let the English barbarians have it.’
‘If they come unopposed,’ vowed the Duke of Britaine, ‘I’ll sell up and buy a muddy farm in their miserable country.’
‘I don’t understand it,’ grumbled the constable. ‘How can men who spend their lives tramping through mud in the rain and cold, existing on weak barley broth, be so spirited, while we, sun-tanned and full of nourishing wine, behave like total wimps? Let’s, for goodness’ sake, make an effort, not let ’em walk all over us like we’re not here.’
The dauphin chipped in. ‘Our women,’ he complained, ‘say all the spirit has been bred out of Frenchmen. They mean to give themselves to the vigour of English youth, in order to re-stock France with bastard warriors.’
Britaine nodded. ‘They say we should all enrol at English dancing schools, since our skill lies only in our heels, which we show while running away.’
Listening to all this, the French king rallied. ‘Find my herald, Montjoy,’ he commanded. ‘I’ll send a message, telling Henry he needn’t think we’re going to stand aside and let him take France just like that.’ He turned to his nobles and ordered them to muster their troops and go out to face the English. ‘Bar Harry England,’ he roared, ‘that sweeps through our land with pennons painted in the blood of Harfleur. Take him, and bring him in chains to Rouen.’
The constable nodded approval. ‘Now you show greatness, your Majesty.’ He smiled. ‘I’m only sorry Henry’s army is so small, and so sick. Why, when he sees our army he’ll fall over his feet in his haste to surrender.’
The mood of the French court was transformed. The nobles hurried away to gather their troops. The herald was dispatched to ask King Henry how large a ransom he would pay to be allowed to return to England.
Only the dauphin was disappointed. He’d wanted to lead an army, too, but his father ordered him to remain with him at Rouen.
The English army was now in Picardy. A bridge there had been hotly contested between the French and English armies, but the French had been driven off. Immediately after this action, Captains Gower and Fluellen met behind the line.
‘Have you come from the bridge, Fluellen?’ asked Gower.
‘Aye,’ said Fluellen, ‘and I saw brave action there.’
‘Is the Duke of Exeter safe?’
‘He is, and he kept the bridge most valiantly. He had gallant help, mind – an old lieutenant by the name of Pistol, who fought like Mark Antony.’
Gower shook his head. ‘Never heard of him.’
At that moment, Pistol came into view, and Fluellen said, ‘Look you, here’s the man himself.’
Pistol approached Fluellen. ‘Captain,’ he panted, ‘I need a favour. The Duke of Exeter rates you, yeah?’
Fluellen shrugged. ‘I’ve been able to do things for him from time to time, and he’s not a man who forgets.’
‘Well, I’ve got this mate, see? Bardolph. He’s a terrific soldier – dead loyal, only Lady Luck done the dirty on him.’
Fluellen nodded. ‘Lady Luck’s like that. A man never knows where he is with her.’
‘The thing is,’ said Pistol, ‘my mate was caught liberating a few bits and bobs from a church and the duke – well, he’s only gone and condemned him to death, hasn’t he. And I was wondering – well, the duke’ll listen to you, right? If you was to tell ’im what a diamond geezer old Bardolph actually is when he’s not nicking stuff out of churches, he might…’
Fluellen held up a hand. ‘Listen, let me tell you something.’ He gazed at Pistol. ‘If Bardolph was my brother, and he’d been caught robbing a church, I’d urge the duke to hang him. We can’t have English soldiers going round stealing from churches, it reflects on the whole army.’
‘Yes, well,’ snarled Pistol, ‘thanks for your help, you Welsh git.’
‘Hang about,’ growled Gower. ‘I recognise this guy now. He’s nothing but a dosser, a layabout and a slimy little thief.’
Fluellen looked confused. ‘But … the bridge. He told me how he’d fought for the bridge, see?’
‘Huh!’ scoffed Gower. ‘Guys like this Pistol, they go where there’s a war, and watch and listen. They learn stuff by heart – what happened here, who did what there, the name of this or that commander, who died bravely at such-and-such a spot. Then they go back to London and claim they were there, in the thick of it, playing the hero.’ He shook his head. ‘You’ve got to watch them, Fluellen, or they’ll take you for everything you’ve got.’
Fluellen nodded. ‘He had me fooled, I don’t mind admitting.’
A drumbeat sounded. ‘The king’s coming,’ said Fluellen, ‘so there’s lucky, ’cause I need to talk to him.’
The two captains hurried away. Pistol stood forgotten in the road, watching them go.
The king greeted Fluellen, and asked him how many of the Duke of Exeter’s men had fallen defending the bridge.
‘I don’t believe the duke lost a single man,’ Fluellen replied, ‘unless you count a guy who was caught robbing a church and is likely to be hanged. His name’s Bardolph, perhaps your Majesty’s heard of him? Ugly brute, face like a slapped arse.’
The king nodded. ‘Let him be hanged, and anybody else caught thieving. All French civilians are to be treated with respect. Nothing of theirs is to be taken unless it is paid for. Kindness will win us their goodwill, and lead on to victory.’
At this point, the French herald, Montjoy, appeared. King Henry looked at him. ‘What’re you doing here, Herald?’
‘I have a message from my king.’
‘I’ll hear it.’
‘Very well, it goes like this. You think we’re dead but we’ve only been sleeping. We could have wiped the floor with you at Harfleur, but we decided to let war and sickness weaken your army further before confronting you. The time is now. You are weak and far from home. You must offer France a ransom in return for safe passage, or see your troops cut down. This ransom will take account of the great expense you have caused us by rampaging through our land. For you to kneel at my king’s feet will not be enough: you must compensate France in full with English gold.’
King Henry fixed the herald with a cold stare, and spoke. ‘Take this reply to your king, Montjoy. Tell him he’s right: I have lost a lot of men, and those who remain are weakened by sickness, so they’re not much better, man for man, than French troops. Fit, one Englishman equals three Frenchmen any time. But there: it’s not like me to boast, something in your French air makes me do it, I think. Anyway, tell your master we wouldn’t choose to fight in our present condition, but we won’t run away, either. There’ll be no ransom. We’ll advance, even if France and some allied nation stand in our path, and we’ll soak your French earth with French blood if we must.’
Montjoy bowed. ‘I will deliver as you have said, Highness.’
The herald departed, and the Duke of Gloucester growled, ‘I hope they don’t attack us now.’
King Henry looked at him. ‘We’re in God’s hands, not theirs. March the men to the bridge. We’ll make camp on the far bank, and press on tomorrow.’
The French army was nearby, camped near a village called Agincourt. A group of nobles took their ease in a tent and passed the time by boasting.
‘I wish it were morning,’ said the Lord High Constable of France. ‘I’ve got the best armour in the world.’
The Duke of Orleans nodded. ‘It’s good, your armour, but what about my horse?’
‘Best horse in Europe,’ conceded the constable.
The dauphin looked at
the pair. ‘You talk about horses and armour?’
Orleans nodded. ‘You’re as well provided with both as any prince in the world.’
‘What a long night this is,’ sighed the dauphin. ‘I wouldn’t swap my horse for any steed on four legs. He’s a Pegasus: a flying horse. He’s my mistress, I’ve written poems to him.’
The constable smiled to himself. He saw through the dauphin: knew him for a vain and boastful youth, full of hot air. When the young man left the tent to prepare for battle, he and Orleans fell to quarrelling over him.
‘The dauphin wants to eat the English,’ said Orleans.
‘I think he will eat all he kills,’ growled the constable, meaning he didn’t expect the youth to kill anybody.
‘He’s a gallant prince,’ defended Orleans. ‘He never did harm that I heard of.’
‘No, and he’ll do none tomorrow,’ retorted the constable.
The pair bickered till a messenger appeared. ‘My lord high constable,’ said the messenger, ‘the English lie within fifteen hundred paces of your tent.’
‘What, has somebody been measuring?’
‘The Lord Grandpre.’
‘Good for him, and roll on day,’ cried the constable. ‘I bet poor Henry isn’t impatient for morning. If his men had any idea what was coming to them, they’d run away.’
The messenger shook his head. ‘The island of England breeds very valiant creatures: thier mastiffs are unmatchable for courage.’
‘Stupid mutts that charge into the jaws of a Russian bear and get their skulls crushed,’ growled Orleans. ‘Might as well say a flea is valiant if it takes its breakfast on a lion’s lip.’ He smiled. ‘It’s two o’clock, but let me see – by ten, we shall have each a hundred Englishmen.’
Act Three
There’s strength in numbers, so the adage goes:
The big battallions crush their lesser foes.
Remember though, in scorn or in despair,
How David slew Goliath, how the tortoise beat the hare.
Henry V Page 2