Agincourt (36 page)

Given that it was obvious that Charles VI’s mental state would render him a liability on the battlefield, the eighteen-year-old heir to the throne should have been the natural choice to lead the army, even if in name only. Henry V had, after all, been actively fighting campaigns in Wales since his early teens and had taken part in a pitched battle before his seventeenth birthday. But Louis de Guienne was not an inspirational figure, least of all one that the peers of France could look to for leadership. “He had a pleasant face,” the registrar of the Paris Parlement observed, “was tall enough, but fat in his body, heavy and slow, and not at all agile.” The reason for the dauphin’s portly frame, according to the monk of St Denis, was the fact that he was indolent and not much given to the practice of arms. He loved to wear jewels and rich clothes, did not mix in a friendly fashion with other lords, unlike his father, and was not affable even to those of his own household. He would not brook any criticism, despite his many faults, which included turning night into day by dining at three or four in the afternoon when he awoke, supping at midnight and falling into bed at dawn. Those who knew him said that if he had lived much longer, he would have surpassed all other contemporary princes in the extraordinary extravagance of his clothes, in the excessive number of his horses and his retinue, and in his showy generosity to the Church. In summary, he was the absolute antithesis of Henry V and not someone to whom the other princes of the blood would willingly defer.
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Even if the dauphin had been of a more martial nature, there were two other reasons that might have explained the decision to keep him away from the battle. The first was entirely practical: the personal risk was too high. Christine de Pizan accepted that “there is no doubt that knights and men-at-arms and the whole army would have greater courage in fighting, seeing their lord in his place, ready to live and die with them,” but even she argued that it was better for him to be absent, because “no one can foresee to which side God will give the good fortune of victory.” If a king or prince was killed, taken prisoner or fled, it was a loss and dishonour not just to himself, but to all his subjects and his country.
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The second reason for keeping the dauphin safely at Rouen with his father was that the Armagnacs in the royal council had no wish to take either of them into the lion’s den. For them, the lion was not Henry V but John the Fearless, and once Henry V had crossed the Somme and continued his journey to Calais, he was marching into the heart of Burgundian territory. Everyone knew that the duke had been recruiting an army and his arrival at its head was still expected on a daily basis. Many believed that he was in alliance with the English and feared that he would join forces with them, especially if tempted by the prospect of crushing an Armagnac army, led by the king of France and his own son-in-law, the dauphin. This spectre was made more serious by the prospect that any conflict would take place in the duke’s lands, which were still smarting from the brutal Armagnac campaign of the previous year. No one knew what might happen. If left in the comparative safety of Rouen, the king and dauphin could swiftly return down the Seine to Paris in the event of an Anglo-Burgundian partnership taking to the field.

So it happened that the thousands of Frenchmen who had willingly answered the call to arms in defence of their country found themselves in an army which, despite its overwhelming superiority in both numbers and armament, lacked the one thing that was absolutely essential. It had no commander. And it was about to face an enemy whose sole advantage was that it was supremely well led.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

THE EVE OF BATTLE

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.”
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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?”
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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’Albret
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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.
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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.
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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.
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