CHAPTER FOURTEEN
As soon as Henry V saw the French taking up their stations, he “very calmly and quite heedless of danger” ordered all his men to dismount and drew them up into battle formation, “as if they were to go immediately into action.” Every leader was given his allotted place and instructions, and the king himself went through the ranks encouraging the men. “He exhorted them to prepare for battle, animating their hearts by his intrepid demeanour, and his consoling expressions.” His priests were also busy, hearing the confessions of men who thought they were about to die. “And there you could see the English, thinking that they would have battle that day, displaying great piety, falling to their knees, raising their hands towards heaven, offering their prayers to God that He would take them into his safe-keeping.” Le Févre de St Rémy, the Burgundian herald who wrote this, evidently did not expect his readers to believe him, for he added the defiant rider that it was true: “I was there and saw these things with my own eyes.” Two Welshmen, Thomas Bassegle of Cardiff and John William ap Howell, were later arrested at Sawston in Cambridgeshire, by the servants of Sir Edmund de la Pole “while on pilgrimage to Walsingham in fulfilment of vows made on the battlefield.”1 They cannot have been the only ones to have sworn to undertake a pilgrimage if they lived through that day.
The chaplain also observed and, indeed, ministered to this unusual demonstration of religious devotion. “And amongst other things which I noted as said at that time,” the chaplain reported, a certain knight, Sir Walter Hungerford, expressed a desire to the king’s face that he might have had, added to the little company he already had with him, ten thousand of the best archers in England who would have been only too glad to be there. “That is a foolish way to talk,” the king said to him, “because, by the God in Heaven upon Whose grace I have relied and in Whom is my firm hope of victory, I would not, even if I could, have a single man more than I do. For these I have here with me are God’s people, whom He deigns to let me have at this time. Do you not believe,” he asked, “that the Almighty, with these His humble few, is able to overcome the opposing arrogance of the French who boast of their great number and their own strength?”2
The two opposing forces were now drawn up, facing each other, on what would become the battlefield of Agincourt. Visiting the site today, it is easy to pick out the principal features that are described by eyewitnesses of the battle. The main road to Calais still runs straight across the plateau from the direction of the river crossing at Blangy, bisecting the flat arable fields that form a triangle between the three small villages of Azincourt, to the north-west, Tramecourt to the north-east and Maisoncelle to the south. The villages are all less than a mile from each other and each one still has its parish church, its cluster of traditional Artois cottages and farmhouses in varying degrees of dilapidation, and its surrounding patch of woodland. A Calvary by the roadside near the Tramecourt crossroads marks the burial ground of the French. The great castle of Azincourt which gave the battle its name has long since disappeared, and a local farmer, with a complete absence of historical empathy, cultivates corn so tall that it dwarfs the pedestrian and obscures the view across the battlefield. Otherwise, it would be easy to fall into the mistake of believing that the field of Agincourt has remained unchanged since that fateful day in 1415. It is an error that has seduced many historians as well as casual visitors to the site.3 Yet the oldest of the three village churches dates from the second half of the sixteenth century; the Calvary was not erected until the nineteenth century and may, or may not, mark the site of the French grave pits; and hidden in the woodlands of Tramecourt is a magnificent eighteenth-century red-brick chateau with a tree-lined approach which has transformed its environs. Most important of all, the woods which six hundred years ago played such a crucial part in limiting the field of action are gone. Though many trees remain on the periphery, these are of relatively recent growth and cannot be taken as the literal boundaries of the original site or even as the direct descendants of the fifteenth-century woodland. Until detailed aerial and archaeological surveys are carried out, it will not be possible even to attempt a definitive description of the battlefield as it was on 24 and 25 October 1415.
Contrary to popular belief, there was no immediate rush to battle. This was partly because it took some time for both sides to settle into their final positions. According to the English chaplain, the only eyewitness who records the first contacts between the two armies, the French arrived first and initially took up a position parallel to the Calais road in a broad field rather more than half a mile away from the English as they emerged over the crest of the hill from Blangy: “and there was only a very little valley between us and them,” the chaplain glumly observed. When Henry drew up his battle lines to face them, the French realised how small his army was and withdrew to a field, at the far side of a certain wood which was close at hand to our left between us and them, where lay our road to Calais. And our king, on the assumption that by so doing they would either circle round the wood, in order that way to make a surprise attack upon him, or else would circle round the somewhat more distant woodlands in the neighbourhood and so surround us on every side, immediately moved his lines again, always positioning them so that they faced the enemy.4 The French had now selected a strong defensive position in the open fields between Azincourt and Tramecourt. They had several miles of comparatively flat open countryside behind them, but the land fell away sharply all round the rest of the plateau in front of them, and the woods that surrounded both villages protected their flanks.5 If the English wished to continue their journey to Calais, there was only one way open to them. They had no option but to mount a full frontal assault.
Given their superior numbers, why did the French not attack there and then, sweeping the English off the plateau and into the Ternoise valley? Both sides were ready for battle, their men-at-arms fully armed, wearing their coats of arms and flying their banners. But Constable d’Albret6 and Marshal Boucicaut were too experienced to fall into the trap of rushing headlong into battle: indeed, they had argued strongly in the royal council that there should be no confrontation at all with the English. Henry should be allowed to complete his chevauchée to Calais unimpeded. Once he returned to England, Harfleur could be besieged and retaken, and the English adventure would have achieved nothing.7
Overruled on the actual decision of whether to give battle by the more hot-headed members of the council, d’Albret and Boucicaut were not going to make the mistake of underestimating their opponents in the field. Having shadowed the English for so long as they sought to cross the Somme, they knew that they were determined, resourceful and dangerous. “For it has often been noted that a small number of desperate men will conquer a large and powerful army,” Christine de Pizan had written, “because they would rather die fighting than fall into the cruel hands of the enemy, so there is great peril in fighting such people as these, as their strength is doubled.” Faced with imminent battle, she advised that a wise commander would not hasten to attack until he had discovered all he could about the state of his opponents:
how great their will to fight, and if they have adequate food or not, for hunger fights from within and can conquer without the use of arms. So he will take counsel with his advisers to decide if it is better to have the battle sooner or later, or if he should wait until attacked. For if he should discover that the enemy is suffering from hunger, or that it is badly paid, whereby the men are falling away little by little and abandoning their commander because they are malcontent, or that there are men present who are spoiled by the ease of courtly life with its luxuries, or even that there are men who can no longer endure the rigors of the field and the hard military life, but rather long for repose, men who will not be in a hurry to engage in battle—then he will remain quiet as if he were not paying attention, and as quietly as he can he will set out to bar the ways of escape. Thus he will surprise the enemy if it is at all possible.8
Boucicaut and d’Albret knew that they had nothing to lose by playing a waiting game. Every passing hour not only brought them more reinforcements but further frayed the already taut nerves of the English, who were tired, hungry and desperate.
As the darkness of a late October evening closed in, it became apparent to both sides that there would be no battle that day. The French were so confident that their superior strength and numbers would deter any prospect of an attack that they broke ranks and began to seek quarters for the night in Azincourt and Tramecourt. The English, still fearing a sudden assault, kept up their battle order as the light failed, continuing to stand rigidly in arms until it became so dark that they could no longer see the enemy. Only then were they allowed to stand down and seek whatever shelter they could find for the night. The two armies were so close that they could hear the voices of the French as they prepared their own camps for the night, “each one of them calling out, as usual, for his fellow, servant, and comrade.”
When some of the English took this as a signal that they could do the same, Henry moved swiftly to stamp out such indiscipline, ordering that silence should be kept throughout the whole army on pain of forfeiture of horse and harness, if the offender was a gentleman, or of losing his right ear if he came from the lower ranks. The imposition of absolute silence was not simply an act of brutal repression, but was intended to make it more difficult for the enemy to carry out any surprise raids during the night. With so many French knights and esquires eager to avenge the loss of Harfleur and to prove their prowess in a daring encounter, the English could not afford to let down their guard. The wisdom of this was proved when a large party of French men-at-arms and bowmen, under the leadership of Arthur, count of Richemont, approached close enough to the English camp for there to be an exchange of fire. Though they quickly retreated back to their own lines, they may have succeeded in taking some prisoners, for the English exchequer accounts record that seven archers from Lancashire were captured on this day.9
Not surprisingly, the unnatural stillness of the English camp had an unnerving effect on both sides. The French began to suspect that their opponents were intending to slip away secretly during the night, so they lit fires and set heavily manned watches across the roads and fields to prevent them escaping. The English could not indulge in any camaraderie to keep up their spirits and, obliged to speak in whispers themselves, became acutely aware of the cheerful noises emanating from the French camp, in which there was no shortage of food or wine. Where their lines were closest, near Tramecourt, they could even see the faces of their foes in the firelight and hear their conversations. The chaplain, wandering through the army and administering what spiritual comfort he could, heard rumours that the French “thought themselves so sure of us that that night they cast dice for our king and his nobles.” The king himself gave short shrift to such ideas: no one in England would ever have to pay a penny towards his ransom, he declared, as he intended either to win the coming battle or die in the attempt.10
Lodgings had been found for the king and some of his closest circle in the village of Maisoncelle, but before Henry retired for the night, he gave orders that all the French prisoners in the army, whatever their rank, were to be released. As at Harfleur, this was done to avoid having to commit some of his precious resources to their safekeeping and to maximise the number of men at his disposal. Again, too, the arrangement was conditional and sworn on oath. If he should win the next day’s battle, the prisoners were bound to give themselves up to him; if he should lose, then they could consider themselves released from their parole and entirely at liberty.11
There was little rest and less sleep for anyone in the English army that night. Only the fortunate few had a roof over their heads and most of the army were camped out in the open, lying on the ground and sheltering as best they could under hedges and in the orchards and gardens of Maisoncelle. The English had endured days on end of “filthy, wet and windy weather.” Now, throughout the long hours of darkness, it rained, not just incessantly, but in torrents.12 Despite the dozens of watch fires burning round the edges of the camp, it was impossible to get warm or dry. The heavy woollen cloaks of even the wealthiest could not have been proof against such weather and must have become saturated as the night progressed.
Weapons and armour must also have suffered. Rust was one of the greatest problems that anyone wearing armour faced. In normal circumstances, it could be kept at bay if the armour were turned in a barrel of sand and regularly polished and oiled, though strenuous activity could still leave a knight’s face streaked with rust from his helmet.13 On an enforced three-week route march, when armour had to be worn constantly, whatever the weather, it was inevitable that rusting would take place, seizing up the joints and blunting the edges of weapons. The archers, too, must have struggled to keep their bows, arrows and bow-strings dry, even though their very lives depended on it. In the numbing cold and wet of that night and early dawn, frozen hands and fingers would have fumbled with awkward laces and buckles, and struggled with recalcitrant and corroding pieces of metal. Armourers, fletchers and bowyers must have been as much in demand as priests, as the tattered remnants of the English army sought to prepare their bodies as well as their souls against the coming fight.
Although Henry had the advantage of a roof over his head, he did not waste the night in sleep. In order to make appropriate decisions, he needed to have the best possible information about the place where the battle would be fought. Around midnight, therefore, he sent a hand-picked group of knights (Sir John Cornewaille and his band, perhaps) to scout out the battlefield by moonlight. When they returned, their report enabled him to determine his final battle plan.14 It was obvious that they were hopelessly outnumbered and that the French had many thousands more men-at-arms. Given this advantage, it was likely that they would attack first, for which he had to be prepared.
Though conventional military wisdom had it that the three divisions of Henry’s army should stand one behind the other in a solid block, this formation was really intended for an army primarily composed of heavy infantry. The English numbers were so small in any case that, had they adopted this arrangement, they would have presented such a narrow front to an infinitely more numerous enemy that they ran the risk of being surrounded and overwhelmed. The alternative was to draw up the three battalions side by side to present an elongated but shallow front. The layout of the battlefield lent itself to this option because both flanks of the army would be protected from attack by the woods and hedges around Maisoncelle and Tramecourt, which would obstruct a massed charge by cavalry or infantry.
As the scouts had also discovered, the heavy rain that had created such miserable conditions for the men camping out overnight had created an unexpected opportunity. The fields where the battle was to take place had been newly ploughed and sown with winter cereals. The soil was not the fine, light loam of the vineyards of France, but the thick, heavy clay of the Somme, with its extraordinary capacity to retain water. Even before it became trampled and churned up by the feet of countless men and horses, it was already turning into a mud-bath. As Henry was quick to appreciate, this would slow down any attack by cavalry or infantry, creating easier targets for his archers. Unlike the men-at-arms, whether mounted or on foot, who had to cross the battlefield to fight at close quarters, the archers would be able to begin their deadly hail of arrows long before they themselves were in range of the lances, swords and axes of the men-at-arms.
Much ink and bile has been spilt in the argument as to how exactly Henry disposed his archers for the battle. The chaplain (who knew his Vegetius and was not a complete military novice) was quite clear on the point: “in view of his want of numbers, he drew up only a single line of battle, placing his vanguard . . . as a wing on the right and the rearguard . . . as a wing on the left; and he positioned ‘wedges’ of his archers in between each ‘battle’ and had them drive in their stakes in front of them, as previously arranged in case of a cavalry charge.” Whatever the shape of the “wedges”—and the Latin word used by the chaplain in its classical form did literally mean a wedge—the chaplain is clear that archers were placed between the three battalions of men-at-arms. However, in his account of the course of the battle, he is equally clear that there were also archers positioned on the wings, describing how “the French cavalry posted on the flanks made charges against those of our archers who were on both sides of our army” and then “rode through between the archers and the woodlands.”15
This confusion is not entirely cleared up by the evidence of the second eyewitness in the English ranks, the equally well-informed herald Jean le Févre, who simply states of the king that “he only made one battle, and all the men-at-arms were in the middle of his battle, and all the banners were very close to each other. On both sides of the men-at-arms were the archers . . .”16 Le Févre’s seems to be the more logical version. The chaplain’s five thousand archers, if divided into only two groups and placed between the three divisions of men-at-arms, would have left the infantry separated from each other by a considerable distance, a major weakness when each infantry division can only have been three hundred men strong. Le Févre’s account is also borne out, as we shall see, by the battle plans drawn up by the French, which aimed to destroy the English archers on the wings.17
Though our two eyewitnesses differ over where the archers were placed, they both agree that all three battles or divisions were placed side by side in a single line. It is a measure of how short of men-at-arms Henry was that he could not even afford to keep a reserve, as was standard practice. In doing this, he was taking a major risk. The archers would not be able to keep the advancing French back forever and at some point it would become necessary for the infantry to hold the line without the support of a reserve. The choice of leader for each battle was therefore a matter of critical importance, especially as the king intended to fight in person and therefore could not observe the course of battle and direct his troops from a vantage point, as Edward III had done at Crécy. There was never any question but that the king himself would be in overall charge and that he would continue to command the main battle, which would hold the centre of the field, but the leadership of both the vanguard and the rearguard would be changed. Sir John Cornewaille and Sir Gilbert Umfraville, who had led the van throughout the march from Harfleur, were now replaced by Edward, duke of York. According to at least one sixteenth-century source, the duke had begged the king for this honour on bended knee, but his age, military experience and rank, and the fact that he was the most senior member of the Order of the Garter present, were all more powerful arguments in his favour. The command of the rearguard, which the duke now relinquished, was given to Thomas, Lord Camoys, another veteran soldier, who had fought in Henry IV’s wars against the Scots, Welsh and French.18
The decisions regarding the deployment of troops in the French army were not made so easily. The task should naturally have fallen to the king or his captain-general, but neither Charles VI nor the dauphin was there. In the absence also of the dukes of Berry, Burgundy, Brittany and Anjou, there was no senior prince of the blood royal to whom command naturally fell. Only Charles d’Orléans could lay claim to any right of precedence, but he was just twenty years old and had no experience of full-scale battle. By rights, the decision should have devolved from the king to his officers, but neither Constable d’Albret nor Marshal Boucicaut had been given any additional delegated powers that would enable him to overrule the princes and assume uncontested control. What is more, both men had served professionally under Charles d’Orléans’ father, Louis, making it more difficult for them to assert their authority over his son.
It is so often assumed that the French rushed unthinkingly into battle that it comes as something of a surprise to learn that a detailed strategy had been worked out in advance. As soon as a decision to fight had been taken by the royal council at Rouen, a battle plan had been drafted, based on the traditional three divisions. The van was to be commanded by the duke of Bourbon, Marshal Boucicaut and Guichard Dauphin, who was the grand-master of the king’s household; the main battle by Constable d’Albret and the dukes of Orléans, Alençon and Brittany; and the rearguard by the duke of Bar and the counts of Nevers, Charolais and Vaudémont. The two wings were to be commanded by Arthur, count of Richemont, and Tanneguy du Chastel, prévôt of Paris. Additionally, a hand-picked body of elite cavalry riding heavily armoured horses, whose specific task was to break the English archers by charging them down, was to be led by Clignet de Brabant, who was one of the two admirals of France, and the chivalrous youth Jehan Werchin, seneschal of Hainault. As Juvénal des Ursins, the French chronicler who reported this arrangement, remarked with justified bitterness, “nothing came of all this organisation.”19
A revised French plan20 seems to have been drawn up a few days before Agincourt, probably at the time when the dukes of Orléans and Bourbon and Charles d’Albret sent Henry V their challenge to battle, since it was designed for the much smaller force that was stalking the English along the banks of the Somme. The new plan envisaged only two battles, a vanguard led by Boucicaut and d’Albret and, behind it, the main body of the army, commanded by Jean, duke of Alençon, and Charles d’Artois, count of Eu. Instead of having a rearguard, there were to be two smaller wings on either side of the main battle, that on the right commanded by Arthur, count of Richemont, as in the original plan, and that on the left by Louis de Bourbon, count of Vendôme, brother of the duke of Bourbon. Each of these divisions was to be entirely composed of men-at-arms fighting on foot. All the “gens de traict,” the miscellaneous bowmen, including both archers and crossbowmen, were to be placed in two companies, one in front of each of the two wings. Additionally, to the rear of the army, there were to be two cavalry forces. The first, composed of a thousand men-at-arms and half their valets, mounted on their masters’ best horses, was to be led by David, sire de Rambures,21 and its specific task was to make a flanking attack to “fall upon the archers, and use their force to break them.” The second, commanded by Louis de Bourdon,22 was made up of only two hundred men-at-arms and the other half of the valets mounted on their masters’ less good horses. It was to go behind the English forces and attack the baggage train, the object being to seize the horses of the dismounted men-at-arms to prevent either a rally or flight in the event of defeat.
As soon as de Rambures ordered his cavalry to attack the English archers, the French bowmen were to begin their volleys, the infantry divisions to march on the enemy, and de Bourdon to launch his raid on the English rear. The aim was to deliver a combined assault so devastating that the English would be overwhelmed and unable to recover. The plan even took into account the changing conditions of the battlefield, allowing the vanguard and main battle to combine into a single division if the English did not divide their own forces, and giving the cavalry units considerable freedom in the way they carried out their tasks so that they could seize any opportunities that arose on the day.23
Having given such thought to tactics, it is inconceivable that the French did not give equal time and energy to preparing a strategy for the actual combat that they knew would take place the next day. Some further revision was necessary—as it always is on battle’s eve—and they did try to take into account the conditions of the site and the fact that the size of their army had increased by possibly as much as a factor of ten. Unlike the English army, where contemporary administrative records support the chroniclers’ assessment of its size as being in the region of six thousand fighting men, no such evidence exists for the French. It is therefore impossible to give even an estimated number with any certainty.24 The commonest figure given by English chroniclers writing during Henry V’s lifetime is 60,000, but rising as high as 150,000 in some sources. The French, with an equally pardonable desire to tweak the figures to their own advantage, give anything between 8000 and 50,000.25 The three eyewitnesses also vary wildly in their estimates. The English chaplain states that “by their own reckoning” the French numbered 60,000, though he does not give his authority. Jean le Févre de St Remy, the Burgundian herald in the English army, suggests 50,000 and Jehan Waurin, a Burgundian in the French army, 36,000, based on his assertion that the French were six times more numerous than the English. Waurin’s figure seems the most likely, if only because he gives it substance by listing the number of men assigned to each position: 8000 men-at-arms, 4000 archers and 1500 crossbowmen in the vanguard, a similar number in the main battle, two wings of 600 and 800 mounted men-at-arms and “the residue of the host” in the rearguard.26
Despite its prestigious absentees, the list of the nobility in the French army on the eve of Agincourt reads like a roll-call of the chivalry of France. There were four royal dukes, Orléans, Alençon, Bourbon and Bar (the duke of Brabant would arrive the next morning), the counts of Vendôme, Eu, Richemont, Nevers, Vaudémont, Blammont, Salm, Grandpré, Roussy, Dammartin, Marle and Fauquembergue, and innumerable lords. All the great military officials of France were also there: Constable d’Albret and Marshal Boucicaut; both the admirals, Clignet de Brabant and Jacques de Châtillon; the master of the crossbowmen, David de Rambures; and the grand-master of the king’s household, Guichard Dauphin. Every bailli from the northern provinces had come, each with his assembled host, together with all the militias, crossbowmen and gunners who could be spared from their towns.
It has sometimes been suggested that the French had too many men and that this was the cause of their defeat. This was not the greatest dilemma facing their strategists, but rather that so many of those men wanted to play a leading role in crushing the English. Which prince of the blood royal would willingly command the rearguard when he had the opportunity to win fame and glory in the vanguard? What is more, it is easy to understand why those who had been assigned a particularly honourable role in previous plans resented what might appear to be a demotion in the latest version. There were not just personal tensions between the princes, but political and territorial ones. Why should Arthur, count of Richemont, and his five hundred Bretons accept a role on the wing, for instance, when he was the younger brother of the duke of Brittany and sole representative of the duchy? Should he not have a place in the vanguard? And what of Philippe, count of Nevers, whom the first plan had relegated to the rearguard? The youngest brother of John the Fearless, had he not defied his sibling to be present and should this not be rewarded? Marshal Boucicaut had knighted him earlier that very evening—was he not to be allowed to win his spurs by taking his place in the front line? On the other hand, one can well imagine that dyed-in-the-wool Armagnacs, like Charles d’Albret, Guichard Dauphin and, of course, Charles d’Orléans himself, would not want to see a party of Bretons or Burgundians in pole positions. Might they not, at a crucial moment, desert to their English allies?
Although it is by no means absolutely clear what battle order was finally agreed—which in itself is an indication of the competing claims and resulting confusion—it seems that the basic plan was similar to that decided upon a few days earlier. Again there would be two main divisions, a vanguard and a main battle, composed of men-at-arms fighting on foot and flanked by men-at-arms on both wings. And once more there was to be a cavalry force entrusted with the specific task of riding down the English archers in the opening moments of the battle. The only major changes were that the bowmen, who had previously been deployed in front of the wings, were now placed behind them, effectively curtailing any role they might play in the battle. This time, too, there was to be a proper rearguard, which was to be mounted and was to include those men-at-arms judged to be less proficient horsemen than those chosen for the elite company, as well as the valets of the great lords fighting on foot in the main body of the army.27
After much argument and many expressions of bad feeling, with every leader of consequence insisting that it was his right to lead the vanguard, they came to a conclusion that was fair but foolish. They would all take their places in the front lines. The vanguard would consist of Constable d’Albret, Marshal Boucicaut and all the other royal officers (except Clignet de Brabant), the dukes of Orléans and Bourbon, the counts of Eu and Richemont (the latter winning his promotion from the infantry wing on the former plan), and Philippe d’Auxy, sire de Dampierre, who was the bailliof Amiens. The command of the main battle was to belong to the dukes of Alençon and Bar, who were to be accompanied by the counts of Nevers, Marle, Vaudémont, Blammont, Salm, Grandpré and Roussy. The counts of Dammartin and Fauquembergue were to share the leadership of the rearguard, together with the sire de Laurois, captain of Ardres, who had brought the men from the borders of Boulogne to the battle. The unfortunate result of these arrangements was noted by Pierre Fenin, a chronicler from Artois who was writing in the 1430s: “all the princes were placed in the vanguard, leaving their own people without leaders.”28
There is some confusion in the chronicles as to the composition and function of the two wings at each end of the vanguard. Most are agreed that one wing (the herald of the duke of Berry says it was the left) was once more to be entrusted to the command of the count of Vendôme, whose company consisted of six hundred officers of the royal household. These included Charles d’Ivry, the grand-master of the waters and forests of France, who had been one of the ambassadors to England earlier in the summer, Guillaume Martel, sire de Bacqueville, the bearer of the oriflamme, Gui, sire de la Roche-Guyon, the dauphin’s chamberlain, “and all the chamberlains, esquires of the stables, buttery, pantry and other officers of the king.” If neither the king nor the dauphin was to be present, at least both men would be represented by their loyal servants. It is nowhere explicitly stated that Vendôme’s wing was mounted and the probability remains that it fought on foot, as originally planned.29
Greater confusion surrounds the other French wing. Berry herald tells us that it was also composed of six hundred men-at-arms and was again led by Arthur, count of Richemont, as in both previous battle plans. The monk of St Denis, on the other hand, attributes its command to Guichard Dauphin. Most sources place both men firmly in the vanguard, so it may be that this wing was at one of its extremities and absorbed into the larger force. In either case the company must have fought on foot.30
All the chronicles were agreed that there was also an elite force of between eight and twelve hundred mounted men-at-arms, who had been specifically chosen from among the best horsemen in the army to ride down and destroy the enemy archers. There is also unanimity in ascribing its leadership to Clignet de Brabant, who had been the first choice of the royal council at Rouen for that role. His second-in-command this time was not the seneschal of Hainault, but Louis de Bourdon, who had been promoted from his previous position leading the attack on the English baggage train. The two men were both experienced Armagnac captains, had often worked together and, in doing so, had acquired a certain notoriety: in 1413 they were accused of pillaging the countryside around Paris at the head of groups of armed men and were ordered to desist and return home immediately. Clearly skilled and professional soldiers, their role during the battle of Agincourt would do nothing to improve their chivalric reputations.31
The likelihood would seem to be that, as originally envisaged in the earlier plans, the cavalry force was stationed somewhere towards the rear of the French lines. When the signal to attack was given, the company would divide along pre-allocated lines to ride round the infantry and launch itself on the archers on both English wings. And, as we have seen, it was the French expectation that this action would begin the battle.
One of the strengths of the English army was that everyone lived and fought within the company and under the leadership of the man who had raised the retinue. By the time it came to battle, they had bonded into tightly knit units, and there was a sense of esprit de corps that gave them a fighting edge. Every soldier knew his place within his own retinue and within the chain of command that led directly to the king himself.
The French had no such formal structure. Though there were groups who fought together as a unit, like the men of the royal household or the town militias, most of the petty nobility were both independent and independently minded. Even members of the same family did not necessarily fight side by side: Jean, sire de Longueval, for instance, fought in the main battle in the company of Robert, count of Marle, but his brother Alain in the vanguard, in the company of Jehan, sire de Waurin, the father of our chronicler.32 The situation was further complicated by the continuous stream of new reinforcements arriving even during the course of the battle, risking a chain of command so stretched that it might break under the pressure.
The elite cavalry squadron had commandeered somewhere in the region of a thousand men-at-arms “supplied by men [taken from] all the companies.”33 Inevitably, those chosen for such roles would be the more experienced and best-equipped men-at-arms, who were most likely to be the career soldiers of the petty nobility. The rearguard became the dumping ground—le Févre refers to “all the surplus soldiers” being placed there—which probably contributed to the lack of leadership, the confusion and the irresolution that afflicted this division of the French army during the course of the battle.34
Indeed, it seems that the French had such a “surplus of soldiers” that they actually sent some away before the battle began. The monk of St Denis reports a highly partisan story that the citizens of Paris had offered to send six thousand men, fully armed, to join the royal army, with the proviso that they should be placed in the front rank if it came to battle. (If such an offer was really made, it is unlikely that it came with a condition of this kind.) Nevertheless, it was rejected with disdain: “the help of mechanics and artisans must surely be of little value,” one Jean Beaumont is supposed to have said, “for we shall out-number the English three to one.”35 The monk used this dubious anecdote as an excuse for some pious reflections on the pride of the French nobility, who deemed it unworthy to accept the help of plebeians and had forgotten the lessons of Courtrai, Poitiers and Nicopolis. If the story is true, it is more likely that the rejection of the Parisian citizens was due to fear that they would simply march straight to the assistance of the duke of Burgundy, rather than against the English.
Nevertheless, there is other evidence to suggest that “plebeian forces” were indeed rejected or deserted before battle began. Four thousand of the best crossbowmen, according to the monk, who ought to have begun the assault on the English, could not be found at their post at the moment they were needed, having been sent away, they claimed, because the nobles said that they were not needed. One might be inclined to suspect this story too, except that the four thousand archers and fifteen hundred crossbowmen who were, according to Waurin, assigned to the vanguard were nowhere in evidence during the battle. Waurin’s own explanation for their absence echoes that of the monk: there was not room on the narrow battlefield between the woods of Azincourt and Tramecourt for anyone other than the men-at-arms, so the bowmen could not be used. Indeed, fifty crossbowmen, who left Tournai in response to the royal summons to assist Harfleur on 17 September, returned home on 18 November without having reached Harfleur or been at the battle of Agincourt.36
The heavy rains that had fallen almost the whole night through finally gave way to the chill and damp of a pale and watery dawn. It was the morning of 25 October 1415, a day celebrated in the Church calendar as the feast of Saints Crispin and Crispinian, the patron saints of shoemakers, saddlers and tanners. Though it is unlikely that anyone in the French army felt that this was an inauspicious day to commit to battle, with hindsight the chroniclers collectively shook their heads and groaned.
Legend had it that Crispin and Crispinian were two brothers from Rome who came to France as Christian missionaries at the turn of the third century and settled at Soissons. There they had plied their trade as shoemakers until they were martyred for their faith on the orders of Emperor Maximilian. As was so often the way with medieval stories of martyrdom, the brothers miraculously survived several gruesome attempts to put them to death: the torturer’s tools would not hurt them, the river Aisne would not drown them and the oil would not burn them. In the end, the executioner had to resort to the more prosaic but successful method of beheading them. The previous year, in May 1414, an Armagnac force had been responsible for the brutal sacking of their home town of Soissons and the execution of its highly regarded captain, Enguerrand de Bournonville, by Jean, duke of Bourbon, who was now one of the leaders of the vanguard at Agincourt.37 The cobbler-martyrs of Soissons were about to get their own revenge in spectacular style.
As soon as first light dawned, the French arrayed themselves in their companies and took up their allotted positions on the battlefield. “The number of them was really terrifying,” the chaplain observed, and the vanguard “with its forest of spears and the great number of helmets gleaming in between them and of cavalry on the flanks . . . was at a rough guess thirty times more than all our men put together.” (The chaplain’s thirty was probably a scribal error for three, which still made the French vanguard eighteen thousand strong. Though this, too, was an exaggeration, he was certainly right that the French van alone outnumbered the entire English army.) “Compared with our men,” he added gloomily, even the rearguard “were a multitude hardly to be counted.”38
Henry V had been up before dawn, calmly preparing his own soul before he organised his army to face their foes. Leaving off his helm, he had put on all his other armour, which, unlike his men’s rusting pieces, was “very bright,” and, over this, a splendid surcoat emblazoned with the combined arms of England and France. Thus arrayed for the battle that was to decide the fate of his claim to France, he had made his way to his makeshift chapel to hear lauds, the first service of the day, followed by the customary three masses with which he always began each day. Having given God his due, he then made ready for the field. He put on his royal helm, a bascinet bearing a rich crown of gold, which was studded with jewels like an imperial coronet and, even more provocatively, was adorned with fleur-de-lis in reference to Henry’s claim to the throne of France. With that curious mix of regality and humility that he had made peculiarly his own, he did not then mount a great dashing charger, but a small grey horse, which he rode quietly and without the use of spurs to the battlefield. There he rode hither and thither, without the customary use of trumpets to announce his presence, drawing his men together and deploying them as he saw fit.39
Every single Englishman, including the king himself, was to fight on foot. All their horses, the baggage, the pages of the knights and squires who were too young to fight, and those who were too sick to raise a weapon in their own defence, were sent behind the lines and committed to the safekeeping of one gentleman, commanding a company of ten men-at-arms and twenty archers.40 Everyone else who was capable of wielding a bow or a sword was deployed according to the battle plan that the king had devised. Unlike the French force, where there were said to be so many banners that some of them had to be taken down and put away because they were causing an obstruction, the English ones were few and could be easily identified. The king’s own bodyguard boasted the four banners that had flown on his flagship as he invaded France: his personal arms and those of St George, Edward the Confessor and the Trinity.41
Scattered among the thin line of men-at-arms could also be seen the banners of Henry’s brother Humphrey, duke of Gloucester, their uncle Edward, duke of York, the earls of March, Huntingdon, Oxford and Suffolk, and those of Sir Gilbert Umfraville, Sir John Roos and Sir John Cornewaille. The archers, now outnumbering their own men-at-arms by five to one, had taken up their positions on the wings and between the battles, hammering their stakes into the muddy ground with leaden mallets that were to prove almost as deadly weapons as their bows.42
As he had done on the previous afternoon when battle was expected, Henry rode up and down his lines, exhorting and encouraging his men to do their best. He did not shrink from addressing the disquiet that some of them must have felt about the justice of the cause in which they were offering their lives, because he knew that this was not simply a moral difficulty, but one that went to the heart of each man’s personal hope of eternal salvation. The laws of war stated that “if the quarrel is unjust, he that exposes himself in it condemns his soul; and if he dies in such a state, he will go the way of perdition.”43 Henry had come to France to recover his rightful inheritance, he reminded them, and his cause and quarrel were good and just. In that quarrel they could therefore fight with a clear conscience and in the certainty of salvation. Then he appealed directly to their sense of patriotism. They should remember that they had been born in the realm of England, where their fathers and mothers, wives and children, were living and waiting for them. For their sakes, they ought to do their best to return covered in glory and praise. The kings of England had inflicted many great defeats on the French in the past; today, every man should play his part in defending the king’s person and the honour of the crown of England. Finally, he told them that the French had boasted that they would cut off two fingers from the right hand of every English archer, so that none of them would ever draw a longbow again. This was a pardonable untruth. Henry’s men knew as well as he did that the French would simply kill anyone not wearing the coat of arms that identified the bearer as being of noble birth and therefore able to afford a ransom. The archers therefore faced certain death if they were defeated. The threat of being mutilated, however, and in a way which implicitly recognised the importance of the archer’s skill, was an insult not to be borne. The very idea was enough to inflame the righteous indignation of the troops, and Henry’s inspirational speech had the desired effect. A great cry went up from the ranks, “Sire, we pray to God that He may grant you long life and victory over our enemies!”44
There was now one last thing Henry had to do if he was to keep his own conscience clear and maintain his reputation for justice in the eyes of the world. He had to make one last effort to avoid battle. He therefore sent heralds to demand a parley and appointed several trusted envoys to meet the French representatives in the centre of the battlefield, in full view of the opposing forces. Though we do not know the names of the Englishmen involved, those of the French have been recorded and, apart from Guichard Dauphin, the grand-master of the king’s household, they were a distinctly provocative choice. Each one had a personal reason to seek vengeance against the English in battle. Colart d’Estouteville, sire de Torcy, for example, was brother to Jean, the defender of Harfleur, who was on parole as the king of England’s prisoner. Jean Malet, sire de Graville, also had a personal grudge against Henry V: he had lost lands round Harfleur worth five hundred livres due to the English invasion and occupation.
The most controversial choice, however, was Jacques de Créquy, sire de Heilly, marshal of Guienne, the only Burgundian in this group of Armagnacs. It was not his political allegiance that made him so contentious but the fact that he was an English prisoner who had broken his parole. In the summer of 1413 the earl of Dorset, who was then Henry’s lieutenant in Aquitaine, had embarked on an aggressive campaign of reconquest over the northern borders of the duchy. As marshal of Guienne, de Heilly had been sent from Paris at the head of a small army “to fall upon the English and drive them out of the country.” Instead, he was ambushed, his men were slaughtered and he himself was one of those captured and sent back to England as the earl’s prisoner. When news of the fall of Harfleur reached him, he could no longer bear his enforced captivity and, with a group of other prisoners, succeeded in breaking out of Wisbech Castle, where he was being held, and escaped back to France.45
While de Heilly had indeed broken his chivalric oath, he had done it for patriotic reasons and he now used this opportunity to attempt to clear the slur on his reputation. “Noble Kinge, it hath often been shewed unto me, and also to others of our realme, that I should fly from you shamefully and otherwise then a knight shoulde doe,” he is alleged to have said to Henry, “which report I am here readie to prove untrue. And if there be any man of your host brave enough to reproach me with it, lett him prepare him to a single battaile. And I shall prove it upon him before thy Majestie, that wrongefullie that report hath been imagined and furnished of me.” This demand was given short shrift by the king, who had more important things on his mind than watching a single combat to redeem de Heilly’s honour. “No battaile shall be here foughten at this time for this cause,” he replied, sternly ordering de Heilly to return to his company and prepare for real battle. “And we trust in God,” he added, “that like as you havinge no regard to the order of honour of knighthood, escaped from us, so this day ye shall either be taken and brought to us againe, or else by the sworde you shall finish your life.”46
As Jean le Févre freely admitted, apart from the airing of de Heilly’s personal grievance, no one knew what the English and French negotiators discussed or what offers were made. The French chroniclers would later claim that Henry had realised that he was hopelessly outnumbered and could not win the battle, so he therefore offered to give back Harfleur (Calais, too, according to some sources), free all his prisoners and pay damages, if only he were to be allowed a free passage home with his men.47 This flies in the face of common sense. Henry would hardly have come so far only to give up more than he had gained, simply to escape with his life; his absolute and unshakeable belief in his cause would not have allowed him to do it. Le Févre’s own version is more plausible, even though he freely admits it was based on hearsay.
The French offered, as I have heard said, that if he would renounce his pretended title to the crown of France, and never take it up again, and return the town of Harfleur which he had recently captured, the king [Charles VI] would be content to allow him to keep Aquitaine and that which he held from the ancient conquest of Picardy [Calais]. The king of England, or his people, replied that, if the king of France would give up to him the duchy of Aquitaine and five named cities which belonged to, and ought to be part of, the duchy, together with the county of Ponthieu and Madam Catherine, the daughter of the king of France, in marriage . . . and 800,000 écus for her jewels and clothing, he would be content to renounce his title to the crown of France and return the town of Harfleur.48
Whatever offers were really made, and by whichever side, the negotiations were brief and were rejected by both parties. All the formalities required by the law of arms and the demands of justice had now been met. Only one recourse was left. There would indeed be a trial by battle, not one between de Heilly and his accuser, nor even one between Henry V and the dauphin, but one between the assembled might of the two greatest military nations in Europe. Their disputed claims were about to be put to the judgement of God.