The Prince of Wales began his reign
like a generous and honest man. He set the young
Earl of March free; he restored their estates and their
honours to the Percy family, who had lost them by their
rebellion against his father; he ordered the imbecile
and unfortunate Richard to be honourably buried among
the Kings of England; and he dismissed all his wild
companions, with assurances that they should not want,
if they would resolve to be steady, faithful, and
true.
It is much easier to burn men than
to burn their opinions; and those of the Lollards
were spreading every day. The Lollards were represented
by the priests probably falsely for the
most part to entertain treasonable designs
against the new King; and Henry, suffering himself
to be worked upon by these representations, sacrificed
his friend Sir John Oldcastle, the Lord Cobham, to
them, after trying in vain to convert him by arguments.
He was declared guilty, as the head of the sect, and
sentenced to the flames; but he escaped from the Tower
before the day of execution (postponed for fifty days
by the King himself), and summoned the Lollards to
meet him near London on a certain day. So the
priests told the King, at least. I doubt whether
there was any conspiracy beyond such as was got up
by their agents. On the day appointed, instead
of five-and-twenty thousand men, under the command
of Sir John Oldcastle, in the meadows of St. Giles,
the King found only eighty men, and no Sir John at
all. There was, in another place, an addle-headed
brewer, who had gold trappings to his horses, and
a pair of gilt spurs in his breast expecting
to be made a knight next day by Sir John, and so to
gain the right to wear them but there was
no Sir John, nor did anybody give information respecting
him, though the King offered great rewards for such
intelligence. Thirty of these unfortunate Lollards
were hanged and drawn immediately, and were then burnt,
gallows and all; and the various prisons in and around
London were crammed full of others. Some of
these unfortunate men made various confessions of treasonable
designs; but, such confessions were easily got, under
torture and the fear of fire, and are very little
to be trusted. To finish the sad story of Sir
John Oldcastle at once, I may mention that he escaped
into Wales, and remained there safely, for four years.
When discovered by Lord Powis, it is very doubtful
if he would have been taken alive so great
was the old soldier’s bravery if
a miserable old woman had not come behind him and
broken his legs with a stool. He was carried
to London in a horse-litter, was fastened by an iron
chain to a gibbet, and so roasted to death.
To make the state of France as plain
as I can in a few words, I should tell you that the
Duke of Orleans, and the Duke of Burgundy, commonly
called ‘John without fear,’ had had a grand
reconciliation of their quarrel in the last reign,
and had appeared to be quite in a heavenly state of
mind. Immediately after which, on a Sunday, in
the public streets of Paris, the Duke of Orleans was
murdered by a party of twenty men, set on by the Duke
of Burgundy according to his own deliberate
confession. The widow of King Richard had been
married in France to the eldest son of the Duke of
Orleans. The poor mad King was quite powerless
to help her, and the Duke of Burgundy became the real
master of France. Isabella dying, her husband
(Duke of Orleans since the death of his father) married
the daughter of the Count of Armagnac, who, being a
much abler man than his young son-in-law, headed his
party; thence called after him Armagnacs.
Thus, France was now in this terrible condition,
that it had in it the party of the King’s son,
the Dauphin Louis; the party of the Duke of Burgundy,
who was the father of the Dauphin’s ill-used
wife; and the party of the Armagnacs; all hating
each other; all fighting together; all composed of
the most depraved nobles that the earth has ever known;
and all tearing unhappy France to pieces.
The late King had watched these dissensions
from England, sensible (like the French people) that
no enemy of France could injure her more than her
own nobility. The present King now advanced a
claim to the French throne. His demand being,
of course, refused, he reduced his proposal to a certain
large amount of French territory, and to demanding
the French princess, Catherine, in marriage, with
a fortune of two millions of golden crowns.
He was offered less territory and fewer crowns, and
no princess; but he called his ambassadors home and
prepared for war. Then, he proposed to take
the princess with one million of crowns. The
French Court replied that he should have the princess
with two hundred thousand crowns less; he said this
would not do (he had never seen the princess in his
life), and assembled his army at Southampton.
There was a short plot at home just at that time,
for deposing him, and making the Earl of March king;
but the conspirators were all speedily condemned and
executed, and the King embarked for France.
It is dreadful to observe how long
a bad example will be followed; but, it is encouraging
to know that a good example is never thrown away.
The King’s first act on disembarking at the
mouth of the river Seine, three miles from Harfleur,
was to imitate his father, and to proclaim his solemn
orders that the lives and property of the peaceable
inhabitants should be respected on pain of death.
It is agreed by French writers, to his lasting renown,
that even while his soldiers were suffering the greatest
distress from want of food, these commands were rigidly
obeyed.
With an army in all of thirty thousand
men, he besieged the town of Harfleur both by sea
and land for five weeks; at the end of which time
the town surrendered, and the inhabitants were allowed
to depart with only fivepence each, and a part of
their clothes. All the rest of their possessions
was divided amongst the English army. But, that
army suffered so much, in spite of its successes,
from disease and privation, that it was already reduced
one half. Still, the King was determined not
to retire until he had struck a greater blow.
Therefore, against the advice of all his counsellors,
he moved on with his little force towards Calais.
When he came up to the river Somme he was unable to
cross, in consequence of the fort being fortified;
and, as the English moved up the left bank of the
river looking for a crossing, the French, who had broken
all the bridges, moved up the right bank, watching
them, and waiting to attack them when they should
try to pass it. At last the English found a
crossing and got safely over. The French held
a council of war at Rouen, resolved to give the English
battle, and sent heralds to King Henry to know by
which road he was going. ’By the road that
will take me straight to Calais!’ said the King,
and sent them away with a present of a hundred crowns.
The English moved on, until they beheld
the French, and then the King gave orders to form
in line of battle. The French not coming on,
the army broke up after remaining in battle array
till night, and got good rest and refreshment at a
neighbouring village. The French were now all
lying in another village, through which they knew the
English must pass. They were resolved that the
English should begin the battle. The English
had no means of retreat, if their King had any such
intention; and so the two armies passed the night,
close together.
To understand these armies well, you
must bear in mind that the immense French army had,
among its notable persons, almost the whole of that
wicked nobility, whose debauchery had made France a
desert; and so besotted were they by pride, and by
contempt for the common people, that they had scarcely
any bowmen (if indeed they had any at all) in their
whole enormous number: which, compared with the
English army, was at least as six to one. For
these proud fools had said that the bow was not a
fit weapon for knightly hands, and that France must
be defended by gentlemen only. We shall see,
presently, what hand the gentlemen made of it.
Now, on the English side, among the
little force, there was a good proportion of men who
were not gentlemen by any means, but who were good
stout archers for all that. Among them, in the
morning having slept little at night, while
the French were carousing and making sure of victory the
King rode, on a grey horse; wearing on his head a helmet
of shining steel, surmounted by a crown of gold, sparkling
with precious stones; and bearing over his armour,
embroidered together, the arms of England and the
arms of France. The archers looked at the shining
helmet and the crown of gold and the sparkling jewels,
and admired them all; but, what they admired most
was the King’s cheerful face, and his bright
blue eye, as he told them that, for himself, he had
made up his mind to conquer there or to die there,
and that England should never have a ransom to pay
for him. There was one brave knight who
chanced to say that he wished some of the many gallant
gentlemen and good soldiers, who were then idle at
home in England, were there to increase their numbers.
But the King told him that, for his part, he did not
wish for one more man. ‘The fewer we have,’
said he, ’the greater will be the honour we
shall win!’ His men, being now all in good heart,
were refreshed with bread and wine, and heard prayers,
and waited quietly for the French. The King
waited for the French, because they were drawn up thirty
deep (the little English force was only three deep),
on very difficult and heavy ground; and he knew that
when they moved, there must be confusion among them.
As they did not move, he sent off
two parties: one to lie concealed in a
wood on the left of the French: the other, to
set fire to some houses behind the French after the
battle should be begun. This was scarcely done,
when three of the proud French gentlemen, who were
to defend their country without any help from the
base peasants, came riding out, calling upon the English
to surrender. The King warned those gentlemen
himself to retire with all speed if they cared for
their lives, and ordered the English banners to advance.
Upon that, Sir Thomas Erpingham, a great English
general, who commanded the archers, threw his truncheon
into the air, joyfully, and all the English men, kneeling
down upon the ground and biting it as if they took
possession of the country, rose up with a great shout
and fell upon the French.
Every archer was furnished with a
great stake tipped with iron; and his orders were,
to thrust this stake into the ground, to discharge
his arrow, and then to fall back, when the French
horsemen came on. As the haughty French gentlemen,
who were to break the English archers and utterly
destroy them with their knightly lances, came riding
up, they were received with such a blinding storm
of arrows, that they broke and turned. Horses
and men rolled over one another, and the confusion
was terrific. Those who rallied and charged
the archers got among the stakes on slippery and boggy
ground, and were so bewildered that the English archers who
wore no armour, and even took off their leathern coats
to be more active cut them to pieces, root
and branch. Only three French horsemen got within
the stakes, and those were instantly despatched.
All this time the dense French army, being in armour,
were sinking knee-deep into the mire; while the light
English archers, half-naked, were as fresh and active
as if they were fighting on a marble floor.
But now, the second division of the
French coming to the relief of the first, closed up
in a firm mass; the English, headed by the King, attacked
them; and the deadliest part of the battle began.
The King’s brother, the Duke of Clarence, was
struck down, and numbers of the French surrounded
him; but, King Henry, standing over the body, fought
like a lion until they were beaten off.
Presently, came up a band of eighteen
French knights, bearing the banner of a certain French
lord, who had sworn to kill or take the English King.
One of them struck him such a blow with a battle-axe
that he reeled and fell upon his knees; but, his faithful
men, immediately closing round him, killed every one
of those eighteen knights, and so that French lord
never kept his oath.
The French Duke of Alençon, seeing
this, made a desperate charge, and cut his way close
up to the Royal Standard of England. He beat
down the Duke of York, who was standing near it; and,
when the King came to his rescue, struck off a piece
of the crown he wore. But, he never struck another
blow in this world; for, even as he was in the act
of saying who he was, and that he surrendered to the
King; and even as the King stretched out his hand
to give him a safe and honourable acceptance of the
offer; he fell dead, pierced by innumerable wounds.
The death of this nobleman decided
the battle. The third division of the French
army, which had never struck a blow yet, and which
was, in itself, more than double the whole English
power, broke and fled. At this time of the fight,
the English, who as yet had made no prisoners, began
to take them in immense numbers, and were still occupied
in doing so, or in killing those who would not surrender,
when a great noise arose in the rear of the French their
flying banners were seen to stop and King
Henry, supposing a great reinforcement to have arrived,
gave orders that all the prisoners should be put to
death. As soon, however, as it was found that
the noise was only occasioned by a body of plundering
peasants, the terrible massacre was stopped.
Then King Henry called to him the
French herald, and asked him to whom the victory belonged.
The herald replied, ‘To the King of England.’
‘We have not made this
havoc and slaughter,’ said the King. ’It
is the wrath of Heaven on the sins of France.
What is the name of that castle yonder?’
The herald answered him, ‘My
lord, it is the castle of Azincourt.’ Said
the King, ’From henceforth this battle shall
be known to posterity, by the name of the battle of
Azincourt.’
Our English historians have made it
Agincourt; but, under that name, it will ever be famous
in English annals.
The loss upon the French side was
enormous. Three Dukes were killed, two more
were taken prisoners, seven Counts were killed, three
more were taken prisoners, and ten thousand knights
and gentlemen were slain upon the field. The
English loss amounted to sixteen hundred men, among
whom were the Duke of York and the Earl of Suffolk.
War is a dreadful thing; and it is
appalling to know how the English were obliged, next
morning, to kill those prisoners mortally wounded,
who yet writhed in agony upon the ground; how the
dead upon the French side were stripped by their own
countrymen and countrywomen, and afterwards buried
in great pits; how the dead upon the English side were
piled up in a great barn, and how their bodies and
the barn were all burned together. It is in such
things, and in many more much too horrible to relate,
that the real desolation and wickedness of war consist.
Nothing can make war otherwise than horrible.
But the dark side of it was little thought of and
soon forgotten; and it cast no shade of trouble on
the English people, except on those who had lost friends
or relations in the fight. They welcomed their
King home with shouts of rejoicing, and plunged into
the water to bear him ashore on their shoulders, and
flocked out in crowds to welcome him in every town
through which he passed, and hung rich carpets and
tapestries out of the windows, and strewed the streets
with flowers, and made the fountains run with wine,
as the great field of Agincourt had run with blood.