The night dragged on, the armies lying so close to each other that soldiers glimpsed through smarting eyes the faces of their enemies caught momentarily by firelight. The slightest noise carried between the camps, and when a horse neighed, it was impossible to tell from which camp the sound arose.
The French, cockily secure in their superior numbers, joked or played at dice, waiting eagerly for morning.
King Henry, exhausted like his men, gave himself no rest. He knew his soldiers lay apprehensive in the dark, realising they were heavily outnumbered, half expecting the coming dawn to be their last. And so he toured the English camp, alone and on foot, calling them his friends, speaking soft words of cheer and encouragement: a little touch of Harry in the night.
Later, wishing to meditate alone, the king borrowed a cloak to conceal his identity, and walked unrecognised among the tents. Presently, he approached Pistol, who asked him who he was.
‘A friend,’ replied Henry.
‘Hofficer, are you?’ pressed Pistol. ‘Or one of the peasants like me?’
‘I am a gentleman of a company,’ the king told him. ‘And yourself – who are you?’
‘As good a gentleman as the Emperor,’ lied Pistol.
‘Then you are better than the king,’ chuckled Henry.
‘He’s all right, the king is,’ said Pistol. ‘One of the lads. I love him, and kiss his dirty shoes. What’s your name, mate?’
‘Harry le Roy.’
‘Le Roy!’ exclaimed Pistol. ‘A Cornish name. Cornish then, are you?’
‘No, I’m Welsh.’
‘So you’ll know Fluellen?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, you can tell him I’ll stick his leek right in his earhole on Saint David’s Day.’
The king laughed. ‘I wouldn’t wear my dagger in my cap that day if I were you – Fluellen might stick that in your earhole.’
‘Why – are you his mate or sommink?’
‘Yes, and his relative as well.’
‘Nuts to you then, that’s what I say.’
‘Thanks. God be with you.’
‘Name’s Pistol.’
‘Suits you.’ And with that the king walked away, passing unrecognised close to Captain Fluellen, just as Captain Gower approached.
‘Captain Fluellen!’ cried Gower.
‘Ssssh!’ hissed the Welshman. ‘The French camp’s about three inches away, d’you want ’em knowing all our names?’ He sighed. ‘Look back at the history of warfare, Gower. Pompey the Great. You’ll find there wasn’t a lot of rabbiting on in his camp. It’s against the ceremony and the care and the sobriety and the modesty of warfare, look you.’
Gower pulled a rueful face. ‘Sorry. The French are loud, though, I’ve been hearing ‘em all night.’
Fluellen scoffed. ‘So because the French are wittering airheads, it’s all right for us to be wittering airheads, too – is that what you think?’
Gower shook his head. ‘Of course not, I will speak lower.’
‘See that you do.’
The king, who had overheard this exchange, nodded to himself. Though it appears a little out of fashion, he thought, there is much care and valour in this Welshman.
Three figures loomed in the dark: common soldiers named John Bates, Alexander Court and Michael Williams.
‘Look,’ said Court, ‘isn’t that the break of dawn?’
‘I think so,’ Bates replied. ‘Not something we particlarly want to see though, is it?’
Williams shook his head. ‘We’re looking at the start of a day we might not see the end of.’ He caught sight of the disguised king. ‘Who goes there?’
‘A friend,’ said Henry.
Williams was suspicious. ‘Who’s your captain?’
‘Sir Thomas Erpingham.’
The soldier nodded. ‘One of the good ones, Sir Thomas. How does he reckon it’ll go today?’
Henry shrugged. ‘Badly.’
‘And has he told the king this?’
‘No,’ said Henry, ‘and it wouldn’t be fair if he did. Deep down, a king’s a man like any other. When there’s reason to be afraid, he’s afraid. Difference is, he can’t speak his fear or show it, because it’d demoralise the men.’
‘Know what?’ said Bates. ‘I bet that however brave he looks, and no matter what he says, King Henry’s wishing he was standing up to his neck in the Thames right now, and I wish he was, with me at his side.’
‘You’re mistaken, friend,’ retorted Henry warmly. ‘I’m sure the king would rather be here than anywhere else today.’
‘Then I wish he was here by himself,’ growled Bates. ‘So he could buy his life with a ransom and save a lot of poor men who won’t get that option.’
Henry shook his head. ‘I don’t believe you think so little of King Henry that you really wish him here alone. I think you’re quite prepared to die in his company, since he’s got right on his side.’
‘How do we know he’s got right on his side?’ queried Williams.
Bates shook his head. ‘Don’t matter, mate. We’re the king’s subjects, it’s our duty to fight for him. If his cause be wrong, the crime’s his. We’re only obeying orders.’
‘Aye,’ retorted Williams. ‘And that lays a heavy burden on the king’s soul, doesn’t it? All those mutilated corpses, widows and children left to starve. All innocent, killed because they owed a duty to the king.’ He looked at Henry. ‘Killed by the king, you might as well say.’
‘Oh, I’m not so sure about that,’ disputed Henry. ‘How do we know that those who die haven’t done wrong before they were called to serve? Their death in battle may be retribution for a lifetime of wrongdoing. Are you saying that when the king takes a man into his army, he becomes guilty of any crime the man may have committed in the past?’ He shook his head. ‘Every subject’s duty is the king’s, but every subject’s soul is his own.’
‘I wouldn’t expect the king to answer for my sins,’ declared Bates. ‘I’ll fight like hell for him, whatever.’
Henry nodded. ‘I heard the king say he won’t be ransomed.’
‘Aye,’ said Williams, ‘he said so to make us fight, but he might change his mind after our throats are cut, and us none the wiser.’
‘If he did that,’ retorted Henry, ‘I’d never trust his word again.’
Williams scoffed. ‘Yeah, like he’d lose a lot of sleep over that. A king don’t give a toss what guys like us think, you sad plonker.’
‘I resent your tone,’ snapped Henry. ‘I’d give you a good battering if we weren’t about to fight on the same side.’
‘After,’ snarled Williams. ‘We’ll have it out after, if we live, right?’
‘Fine by me,’ grated Henry.
The soldier glared at him. ‘How will I recognise you?’
‘Give me your glove,’ said Henry. ‘I’ll wear it in my cap, and if you’ve the bottle to challenge me, I’ll make you regret it.’
‘And I’ll wear one of yours,’ said Williams, ‘and if you come up to me and say that’s my glove, I’ll stick it where the monkey stuck his nuts.’
Leaving the three soldiers, the king resumed his solitary meditations, and a short time later, Sir Thomas Erpingham sought him out.
‘My lord,’ he said, ‘your nobles have been looking all over the camp for you,’
‘Get them together in my tent,’ instructed Henry. ‘I’ll be there shortly.’
When Erpingham had gone, the king offered up prayers for victory, till the Duke of Gloucester came to escort him to his tent, where the nobles awaited him. It was nearly morning.
At the French camp, the nobles prepared their steeds for battle as the rising sun struck flashes off their armour. The knights were high, pumped up with confidence.
A messenger appeared. ‘The English are mustered for the fight!’ he cried.
‘Mount up!’ ordered the Constable of France. ‘Look at ’em, what a pathetic show. The sight of us will knock the stuffing out of ’em before we strike a blo
w. There aren’t even enough of ’em to give us all a go – our peasants could mop ’em up by themselves, if honour didn’t compel us to get in the act.’ He laughed. ‘Anyway, let’s do our little bit and get it over.’
Grandpre now appeared. ‘What’re you hanging about for, my lords of France?’ he bellowed. ‘That’s not an army, it’s a heap of rubbish, and it’s making the place look untidy. Spur your mounts, get down there and sweep it up.’
‘The English have said their prayers,’ joked the constable, ‘now they’re waiting to die.’
‘Maybe we ought to send ’em dinners and fresh kit,’ mocked the dauphin, ‘and fodder for their nags, then fight ’em.’
‘For goodness’ sake, let’s just get on with it,’ said the constable, though it hardly seemed worth the effort.
In the English camp, the nobles were mounting their horses, wishing one another luck, taking leave of each other lest they shouldn’t meet again in this life. None of them was defeatist, but they weren’t fools, either. The French, with sixty thousand men, outnumbered the English five to one, and the French soldiers weren’t tired as their opponents were.
The Duke of Westmoreland looked at the king. ‘I wish we had ten thousand of the men in England who’ll do no work today.’
‘No, cousin.’ Henry shook his head. ‘If we die today, England will have lost enough men. And if we win, the fewer we are, the greater each man’s share of the honour. In fact…’ He gazed at his cousin. ‘You may announce that any man who doesn’t relish the coming fight may drop out and go home. I’ll pay his fare and guarantee him safe passage – we wouldn’t want to die in that man’s company.’ He looked at his nobles. ‘Today is Saint Crispin’s Day. Every Englishman who survives this battle will hold his head high whenever Crispin’s Day comes round, and show his wounds, and say “these wounds I had on Crispin’s Day”. Old men forget, but from now on the very name Crispin will cause men to remember us with pride – we few, we happy few, we band of brothers. And gentlemen in England now abed shall think themselves accursed they were not here, and hold their manhoods cheap while any speaks that fought with us upon Saint Crispin’s Day.’
The Earl of Salisbury came forward. ‘My sovereign lord,’ he cried. ‘The French are about to charge.’
‘We’re ready,’ said the king.
‘Perish the man who’s not,’ growled Westmoreland.
Henry glanced at him. ‘You don’t want more help from England, then?’
His cousin shook his head. ‘I don’t. In fact, I wish it was just the two of us taking on this lot.’
The king nodded his approval. ‘You know your places,’ he said to the nobles. ‘God be with you.’
As the English prepared to ride, the French herald, Montjoy, appeared once more, enquiring about Henry’s ransom. ‘Last chance,’ he said, ‘to save your poor men from certain massacre.’
The king was furious. ‘Who sent you this time?’ he demanded.
‘The Constable of France.’
‘Give him this message,’ grated Henry. ‘Say, your soldiers better catch me before they start wittering on about ransom. And tell him if our men die, their corpses’ll send up such a stink, it’ll spread a plague through all France.’ He glared at Montjoy. ‘Don’t come again, Herald. There’ll be no surrender, and no ransom.’
Montjoy bowed. ‘I’ll tell him, King Henry. And so fare thee well – thou never shalt hear herald any more.’ His words held a suggestion of grudging admiration for this stubborn, doomed monarch.
The Duke of York begged the honour of leading the English charge. Henry granted his request and said, ‘Now soldiers, march away; and how thou pleasest, God, dispose the day!’
Act Four
Charging knights, an awesome clatter make,
At whose approach, the stoutest heart may break.
Those steely, thund’rous hooves, those gleaming lances
Cause gallant men to set at nought their chances.
But hold: there lurks a simple twist of fate
As patiently, the English bowmen wait.
The French and English knights galloped their chargers at one another, and the battle began. The foot soldiers met and mingled, slashing and hacking. Blood spurted and fell, soaking the earth. The air was filled with the clash of steel on steel, the cries of men and the whickering squeals of terrified horses.
In some part of the battlefield, the rogue Pistol managed to get the better of a French soldier and went to take him prisoner. The boy was with him.
‘Yield, cur!’ he growled.
‘You are, I think, the gentleman of good quality,’ whined the Frenchman in his own language, eyeing Pistol’s weapon.
‘Callity?’ hooted Pistol, who knew no French. ‘Are you a hofficer or sommink? What’s yer name, you Froggy git?’
‘O, Seigneur Dieu!’ said the frightened Frenchman.
‘O, Seigneur Dieu’s a gentleman, no danger,’ asserted Pistol. ‘Perpend my words, and mark: I’ll skewer you and fink noffink of it, unless you coughs up an egregious ransom.’
‘O, show mercy,’ begged the prisoner. ‘Have pity on me.’
(The French for me is moi; Pistol heard it as moy.)
‘Moy?’ he cried. ‘Don’t you moy me, sunshine. I wants forty moys, minimum, or I’ll slit yer bleedin’ froat.’
‘Is it impossible,’ wept the Frenchman, ‘to escape the power of your arm?’
(Arm in French is bras.) ‘Brass?’ yelled Pistol.
‘You’ve the nerve to offer me brass, you foreign pillock?’
‘O, pardonnez-moi,’ said the prisoner.
‘Wot the ’ell’s that mean, eh? Ton of moys, is it?’ He called the boy. ‘’Ere boy – ask him in French wot his name is.’
‘Ecoutez,’ said the boy to the Frenchman. ‘Comment etes-vous appele?’
‘Monsieur le Fer.’
‘He says his name is Master Fer.’
‘Master Fer,’ sneered Pistol. ‘I’ll fer ’im and firk ’im and ferret ’im – tell ’im that in French.’
The boy looked blank. ‘I don’t know the French for fer, ferret nor firk.’
‘Well tell him to get ready, I’m gonna cut ’is froat.’
The prisoner was apprehensive. ‘What’s he saying?’ he asked the boy in French.
The boy shrugged. ‘He orders me to tell you to get ready, ’cos he’s about to cut your throat.’
‘Aye,’ confirmed Pistol, ‘I’ll coopay votra gorge all right, unless you comes up wiv crowns and plenty of ’em, quick-sticks.’
‘O, I beg you!’ cried the Frenchman, ‘for the love of God, forgive me. I am the gentleman of a good house. Spare my life and I will give you two hundred crowns.’
‘What’s he rabbiting on about now?’ asked Pistol, irritably.
‘Says he’s a gentleman, and if you’ll spare his life he’ll give you two hundred crowns.’
‘Tell ’im,’ instructed Pistol, ‘that I’m not as mad wiv ’im as I was, and I’ll take the crowns.’
‘What does he say?’ asked the Frenchman.
‘He says, although it is against his oath to pardon any prisoner, nevertheless, for the crowns you have promised, he is happy to grant you liberty.’
‘On my knees,’ babbled the prisoner, ‘I give a thousand thanks, and I guess happily that I fell into the hands of a knight, I think, most brave, valiant and very distinguished Lord of England.’
‘What was all that, boy?’ asked Pistol.
The boy told him what the Frenchman had said.
Pistol preened. ‘I will show mercy,’ he said. ‘Follow me.’
‘You’re to follow the fine captain,’ said the boy to the Frenchman. He watched the man hurry after the strutting rogue.
What a plonker that Pistol is, he thought. Talk about empty vessels. Bardolph and Nym were braver than him, and they’re both hanged. He’d be hanged, too, if he’d the guts to steal boldly instead of sneaking about. Think I’ll go join the lackeys guarding the camp’s baggage. Good
job the French don’t know there’s only boys watching it.
As the French cavalry thundered towards the English lines, Henry’s bowmen snapped into action, loosing salvo after salvo of arrows into the air. So deftly did they shoot, nock and shoot again, the sky was never empty of shafts that soared, arced and dropped like a dense hailstorm among the French knights. Stricken horses reared, squealing. Men toppled from their saddles, pierced often by more than one arrow. The charge faltered, milled and broke up. There was no defence against the deadly hail of shafts. The proud mounted nobles of France were scattered without even having reached the rag-tag army they’d so lately mocked.
‘O, diable!’ swore the Constable of France.
‘O, Lord,’ cried Orleans. ‘The day is lost – all is lost!
‘God’s death,’ grated the dauphin. ‘It’s gone – everything’s gone. We’ll be a joke, folk’ll laugh themselves sick.’ A bugle sounded retreat. ‘O, evil fortune, don’t run away – don’t!’
‘Why not?’ gasped the constable. ‘They’ve broken our ranks, there’s nothing we can do.’
‘O, the shame,’ moaned the dauphin. ‘We’ll have to kill ourselves. Are these the plonkers we laughed at?’
‘Is their king the waster we were going to ransom?’ asked Orleans bitterly.
Bourbon spoke to rally the nobles. ‘Turn – turn and advance. Though all is lost, let’s at least die facing the enemy.’
And so the remains of the French cavalry wheeled, charged and were cut down.
In another part of the field, King Henry, the Duke of Exeter and other nobles gathered, shepherding a flock of prisoners.
‘You’ve fought bravely,’ said the king, ‘but it isn’t over yet. Some of the French are still fighting.’
‘The Duke of York has fallen, your Majesty,’ said Exeter, ‘and the Earl of Suffolk. They died comforting each other, and I cried to witness it.’ He shook his head. ‘My mother came into my eyes and gave me up to tears.’
‘I don’t blame you,’ replied the king. ‘I’m close to tears just hearing of it.’
A bugle sounded. The king looked round. ‘What’s this? The French have rallied their men and regrouped. Tell every soldier to kill his prisoners, lest they flee and rejoin the battle.’
Henry V Page 3