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.’
As this grisly deed proceeded, Captains Fluellen and Gower discovered another. Some French troops fleeing the battlefield had come upon the English luggage, killed the boys guarding it and plundered the king’s tent.
‘It’s completely against the law of arms, look you,’ cried Fluellen.
Gower nodded. ‘The cowards haven’t left one boy alive, and they’ve nicked the king’s gear. No wonder he’s ordered the prisoners killed.’
As the captain spoke, the king himself approached with Warwick, Gloucester, Exeter and other nobles. They had some prisoners with them.
‘I was not angry since I came to France,’ said Henry, ‘till now.’ He gazed at the mutilated corpses of the luggage boys, then turned to his friends. ‘From this moment, we kill every Frenchman we find. We take no prisoners – flee or die are their only choices. Start with the prisoners here.’
‘My liege, the herald of the French is here again,’ said Exeter.
Gloucester looked at the dejected Montjoy. ‘His eyes are humbler than they used to be,’ he observed.
‘Now then, Montjoy,’ greeted Henry. ‘Come about that ransom, have you?’
The herald shook his head. ‘I seek permission to bury our dead,’ he said.
‘So soon?’ queried the king. ‘I don’t even know yet who’s won the day: there are still French horsemen galloping about the field.’
‘The day is yours,’ murmured Montjoy.
‘God’s doing then, not ours,’ said Henry. ‘Tell me, Herald, what’s the name of that castle over there?’
‘They call it Agincourt.’
‘Then this will be known as the field of Agincourt, fought on Crispin’s Day.’
Fluellen spoke up. ‘Your Majesty’s great-grandfather and great uncle, the Black Prince, fought a brave battle here in France, isn’t it?’
‘They did, Fluellen,’ agreed the king.
‘Yes, and Welsh soldiers played a gallant part, see, fighting in a garden where leeks grew, wearing leeks in their caps, so that the leek has become an honourable badge of the service.’ He smiled. ‘In fact I think you wear the leek yourself on Saint David’s Day.’
‘I do,’ confirmed Henry, ‘for I’m Welsh myself, y’know.’
Fluellen strutted away, glowing with pride.
‘Heralds,’ commanded the king, ‘go with my countryman, count the dead of both sides and let me have the tally.’
A soldier came by, whom the king recognised. It was Williams, who had challenged him last night while he was disguised.
‘Bring that fellow to me,’ he ordered Exeter.
‘Soldier,’ said Exeter, ‘the king wants a word with you.’
The man approached.
‘Why d’you have a glove in your cap?’ asked Henry.
‘Sire, I’ve vowed to fight its owner, if he’s alive.’
‘A swaggering loudmouth, your Majesty. If he claims his glove I’m going to batter him. Or, if I see my glove in his cap, I’ll knock it off, and the head with it.’
The king looked at him. ‘See you keep your vow, when you meet the fellow.’
‘I will, my liege,’ said the soldier.
‘Who’s your captain?’ asked Henry.
‘Captain Gower, sire.’
When Williams had gone, Henry called Fluellen to him and gave him Williams’s glove. ‘This belongs to an enemy of mine,’ he said. ‘Wear it in your cap, and if somebody claims it, you’ll know he’s not a friend and I want you to apprehend him.’
‘It’ll be an honour, your Majesty,’ said Fluellen.
‘Oh, and send Captain Gower to me.’
When the Welshman departed, Henry explained to Warwick and Gloucester what he’d done, and asked them to keep an eye on Fluellen. ‘That glove might earn him a thick ear,’ he chuckled. ‘It belongs to a short-tempered soldier, and I wouldn’t put it past Fluellen to overreact. Watch, and see nobody’s seriously hurt.’
Presently, Captain Gower approached. As luck would have it, Williams was with him. ‘I believe the king means to knight you, Captain,’ he murmured.
At that moment, Fluellen also appeared. Williams saw his glove in the Welshman’s cap.
‘That’s my glove!’ Williams cried. ‘So it was you last night, strutting and blowing. Take that!’ He hit Fluellen hard across the face with Henry’s glove.
‘If this is your glove,’ roared Fluellen, ‘then you’re the king’s enemy and a damned traitor, and I’ll arrest you if I don’t kill you first.’
Warwick and Gloucester hurried forward. ‘What’s wrong?’ asked Warwick.
‘My lord of Warwick,’ gasped Fluellen, ‘it’s treason – this man’s an enemy of the king; and here is the king.’
Henry approached. ‘What is happening?’
‘My liege,’ gasped Fluellen, ‘this man’s a traitor and an enemy. He recognised the glove you gave me and struck me.’
‘It’s my glove,’ protested Williams. ‘Look – here’s the match. I gave it to the puffed-up braggart I met last night, and vowed to batter him if I saw it in his cap.’ He pointed to Fluellen. ‘This is he, and I’ve kept my vow.’
‘He’s lying, your Majesty,’ cried the Welshman. ‘He’s nothing but a low-down traitor. You gave me this glove – tell him.’
‘Give me your glove, soldier,’ commanded the king. ‘See – here’s the match, which you gave to me. It was I you vowed to strike.’
‘But…’ Williams shook his head. ‘You didn’t look like… You were disguised. I would never do anything to offend my king, your Majesty. Not knowingly. I can only beg you to pardon me.’
The king handed the soldier’s glove to Exeter. ‘Fill this with crowns,’ he said, ‘and give it to him.’ He looked at Williams. ‘Keep it, soldier, and wear it for an honour in your cap.’
A herald now approached. Henry turned to him. ‘Are the dead counted?’
‘Yes, my liege. This paper gives the tally of French dead.’ He gave the king the slip of paper. Henry looked at Exeter. ‘Which French nobles have we as prisoners, Uncle?’
‘Charles, Duke of Orleans,’ said Exeter. ‘John, Duke of Bourbon and Lord Bouciqualt. Also fifteen hundred other lords and barons, knights and squires. And that’s not counting the common men.’
Henry shook his head in amazement. ‘This note says the French lost ten thousand men, of whom only sixteen hundred were peasants. That means they’ve lost eight thousand four hundred princes, barons, lords, knights, squires and gentlemen of blood and quality. It’s beyond belief.’ He looked at the herald. ‘Do you have the tally of our English dead?’
‘Right here, your Majesty.’ He handed the king another paper.
‘Edward Duke of York, the Earl of Suffolk, Sir Richard Kikely, Davy Gam Esquire.’ Henry looked up. ‘No others by name, and only twenty-five common soldiers.’
The difference in numbers of the French and English dead made Henry’s victory even more stunning than it had seemed before. He was elated, but declined to claim any credit for himself. God, he said, had brought about this miraculous outcome.