THE EVE OF AGINCOURT
The English army had crossed the Somme at a distance of more than sixty
miles from the ford of Blanche-Taque, where Edward III had made his bold
stroke eighty years previously. To regain the sea by descending the
right bank of the river would mean a march that was beyond the strength
of the weary soldiers; accordingly King Henry resolved to abandon his
original plan and march direct to Calais.
It was not until the morning of October 24, that the invaders crossed
the River Ternoise after a slight skirmish at the ford of Blangy. On and
on they toiled, soaked by the October rain, half famished, and footsore
through hard marching; yet the indomitable spirit that pervaded the
dauntless band never for one moment showed signs of flagging.
On crossing the Ternoise the order of march had been reversed. The
Hampshire companies, on whom the brunt of the vanguard actions had
fallen, were ordered to fall in with the main body, while the advance
guard was entrusted to the men of Yorkshire and Devon, under the command
of the Duke of York.
[Illustration:
"SIRE, WERE THERE ANY WHO DWELT IN FEAR OF THE ISSUE
OF THE BATTLE, WOULD THEY SLEEP SO QUIETLY?"
]
Steadily Geoffrey and Oswald trudged through the stiff clay that sorely
impeded the progress of the soldiers. The squires had divested
themselves of a portion of their armour, that dangled from the
saddle-bow of their chargers. In common with many of the mounted men
they had temporarily given up their steeds to those of the archers who
would otherwise have fallen out by the wayside.
Twelve miles of that tedious route had been accomplished since the
passage of the Ternoise, when a soldier, galloping madly on a
foam-flecked horse, came thundering along the road, a shower of mud
flying from the hoofs of his steed.
"The enemy, sir," he shouted as he passed the leader of the Hampshire
companies.
Already the vanguard was observed to be at a standstill, while the
supporting troops extending right and left were taking up their position
on the flanks. The spirit of battle was in the air.
Massing in close order the five thousand men of the main body moved to
the support of their van. Cold, fatigue, hunger—all were forgotten.
It was a stirring sight that met the gaze of Geoffrey and his comrades
as they gained the brow of a low hill overlooking the woods of
Maisoncelles. Before them lay a gently-sloping plain, flanked on either
side by dense masses of trees, while across the open ground could be
traced the narrow lane that passed through the village of Agincourt and
joined the broader road from Abbeville to Calais, just beyond the
cluster of thatched and mud-walled houses.
But to the observers' eyes the lane was lost to view in the serried
ranks of the mighty host representing the chivalry and power of France.
Three bowshots off, at the very least, the enemy stood, barring the
advance of the slender English force.
Swiftly, yet in an orderly manner, the archers and men-at-arms of the
invading army took up their positions. The men-at-arms, barely four
thousand in number, were placed in the centre, the bowmen being massed
on either flank; but by mutual consent, for the night was beginning to
draw on, there was no inclination to engage in battle.
"The King's orders are that ye rest yourselves," announced Sir Thomas
Carberry, as he rode up to his company. "'Tis nearly certain that the
foe will not attack us this night, yet to guard against surprise let
each man sleep in his ranks, with his arms ready at his side. 'Tis a
sorry night, men, for rest, yet be assured I and my squires will share
the discomforts with you."
"I heed not the rain, fair sir," exclaimed an archer boldly, "though I
be powerful hungry."
Good-humoured laughter from his fellows greeted these words. Geoffrey
recognized the voice as that of one of the Warblington archers, who in
times of peace was a wild-fowler of the marches of Thorney.
"Have no fear on that score, archer," replied the Constable. "Already
the sutlers are abroad, and many wains of provisions are on their way
from yonder village. I do perceive, also, that on our right flank the
men are lighting fires. Gripwell, do thou send ten men into the woods
and bring back faggots sufficient to last us the night."
Quickly the men went on their errand, and ere long thick columns of
smoke arose from the sodden logs, till the heat gaining the mastery, the
dull red flames began to throw out a comforting glow. Then, with the
arrival of the victualling wains, drawn by peasants pressed into
service, the camp began to show signs of cheerfulness, in spite of the
almost continuous downfall of icy rain. Yet the utmost order and decorum
prevailed in the English lines—a striking contrast to the boisterous
laughter and merriment that was wafted on the winds from around the
watch fires of the French camp.
At intervals officers passed slowly along the lines intent on seeking
out their friends, whom, perchance, they were to see and converse with
for the last time; priests and friars, too, threaded their way amongst
the soldiery, hearing confessions and giving spiritual consolation to
all who desired their ministrations.
Thus the time passed till it was midnight. At intervals the rain ceased,
and the pale moonbeams glittered upon the damp grass and the waving
foliage of the neighbouring woods. Most of the English troops had fallen
asleep, slumbering fitfully under the canopy of heaven. Others conversed
in low tones, or offered up prayers for the safety of their comrades and
themselves, and for the successful issue of the coming struggle. Still
the French camp maintained its state of revelry, for food and wine were
in abundance, and, with every prospect of delivering a crushing defeat
upon their numerically weaker foes, the mercurial spirits of the
Frenchmen rose high. They had forgotten their defeats at Crécy and
Poictiers; time had erased the memory of the English longbow.
"The night drags slowly on," remarked Oswald, drawing his saturated
cloak more closely around his shoulders. "Would that we had something to
do to bring some warmth to our bodies."
"We'll not lack for warmth ere the sun sets again," replied Geoffrey.
"But what discord those Frenchmen are making. Could we but let loose a
troop of lances through the camp there would be no little advancement
occasioned by the deed. But who cometh?"
At that moment a soldier walked swiftly along the front of the line of
recumbent men. The moonbeams glistened on his armour that a long cloak
failed entirely to conceal.
"Halt! who comes?" demanded Geoffrey, barring the stranger's way with
drawn sword.
"A friend! Why hast thou challenged me?" replied the man in a deep
voice.
"'Tis not permitted to pass without the lines," replied the squire. "I
pray thee keep close to the fires, lest an over-zealous archer feather
thy back with an arrow."
"Thanks for thy warning, fair sir; I will pay heed unto. But I pray
thee, who art thou, what is thy condition?" asked the man with a trace
of authority in his speech.
"Since thou art a stranger 'tis thy place to give thy name first,"
replied Geoffrey.
"And if I refuse?"
"Then 'tis my duty to bring thee before my master, Sir Thomas Carberry,"
answered the squire, at the same time beckoning to two men-at-arms who
were standing close to one of the camp-fires.
"Nay, use not force, fair sir," replied the cloaked man. "To thy master
I can give a good account of myself."
"I trust for thine own weal that thou canst," said Geoffrey as he
preceded his prisoner, the two soldiers following to prevent a possible
treacherous attack on their young squire.
Sir Thomas Carberry was at that moment conversing with Sir Hugh Talbot
of the Salisbury company, and on the approach of the party he turned.
"Whom hast thou here?" demanded the Constable.
"A man whom I found without our lines," replied Geoffrey. "According to
mine orders to detain all who might be thus found I have brought him
hither."
"Thy squire, Sir John, is to be commended for his action," said the
stranger in an altered tone, as he removed the cloak from his head and
shoulders, disclosing the familiar features of Henry, King of England.
"Sire!" gasped the astonished knight. "Thy pardon for my squire and for
me——"
"Pardon for faithfully executing mine orders, good knight? Nay, rather
let us be quick to recognize a stern devotion to duty. But how sayest
thou, Sir John? Thou art grown grey in warfare. What thinkest thou of
our chances in the coming fight?"
"A better chance the royal Edward never had at Crécy, sire, unless yon
host have the sense to enfold us by their superior numbers. Yet methinks
they will risk their advantage in a frontal attack, and neglect to make
use of the cover afforded by yon woods."
"Trusted men I have already sent to make sure of the nature of the
ground on our right flank," said the King. "For a like purpose have I
come to thee. Hast thou a trusty level-headed man or two whom thou canst
send through the woods on our left? If so, I pray thee dispatch them
with haste, and let them bear me a full report within an hour. But, bear
in mind, none but those who have counted the cost and are willing to
undertake the hazard are to be sent. Thy zealous squire, there: he hath
lurked in trees before to-day, as we know full well—perchance he may be
eager to repeat his exploits. But that is his affair. Fare thee well,
Sir Thomas.... Stay—another question: What dost thou think of the
spirits of the men under thy command?"
In answer the Constable pointed to the lines of slumbering men.
"Sire, were there any who dwelt in fear of the issue of the battle,
would they sleep so quietly in the face of danger? Speaking for our
company, I can safely say that their hearts are full of courage and
devotion to thy person."
"'Tis well, Sir Thomas. Thrice happy is a king whose people's hearts are
his throne. Again, farewell, and may Heaven look favourably upon us this
coming day."
"Geoffrey, thou hast heard his Majesty's word?" asked Sir Thomas.
"Certes, thy service in the matter of the conspiracy at Southampton he
hath not forgotten. How sayest thou? Art willing to undertake this
enterprise? Bethink thee; 'tis a perilous service, and short will be thy
shrift if thou art discovered."
"Fair sir, I have already counted the cost. Give me thy leave and thy
blessing, and I will go."
"But not alone. Choose a burly comrade and get thee away. Remember that
within an hour the King requires my report."
The squire made his way to where Gripwell was standing, with Oswald and
Ratclyffe.
"Ho, Squire Lysle!" exclaimed the man-at-arms. "Who was yon fellow whom
thou hast carried to our master? Hast 'prisoned a hornet? I' faith, he
swaggered past us as if he were King Harry himself."
"'Twas none other than the King," replied Geoffrey.
"What! The King? A fine story to tell at home—if home we ever see—how
that Squire Lysle laid hands upon his liege lord."
"Nay, let that pass," replied Geoffrey, "for I have other work in hand.
Art willing to bear me company as far as the French camp?"
"Right willingly," replied the grey-headed man-at-arms when the squire
had explained the nature of his errand.
"And I, too, will go with thee," exclaimed Oswald.
"And I," added Ratclyffe.
"Nay, four are too many for a secret errand such as this," objected
Geoffrey. "Now help me to unhelm, Oswald. My coat of mail must also be
left behind."
Swiftly the rusted armour was removed, and, armed only with a poniard,
Geoffrey set out on his desperate errand, with Arnold Gripwell,
similarly armed, to bear him company.
In a whisper they replied to the cautious challenge of the alert
sentinel, then crossing the bog-like ground in front of the lines, they
gained the sombre recesses of the wood.
Here the darkness was more intense than in the open, but by degrees
their eyes became accustomed to the gloom, though at almost every step
they stumbled over the slippery moss-grown roots that encumbered the
ground in all directions.
For a distance of nearly a bow-shot the two adventurers pursued their
way, till, plucking at his comrade's sleeve, Geoffrey came to a sudden
standstill.
For full five minutes they listened, striving to detect above the
confused noise of the French camp the sound of some unseen foe. A sudden
rustling in the undergrowth caused the lad's heart to beat violently,
while his right hand clutched the hilt of his dagger. Then came a sharp
squeal of pain, and a hare, with a stoat at its throat, tore almost
across the squire's feet.
Presently the twain came to a clearing, through which wandered a little
brook. Here the ground was almost knee-deep in stiff clay, so that both
men had to hold the tops of their shoes to prevent them being dragged
off their feet by the tenacious slime. The crossing of the glade was a
nerve-racking ordeal, since neither knew but that an invisible foe
lurked in the thickets beyond.
Fortune favoured them, however, and unharmed they gained the friendly
shelter of the furthermost wood.
Now they were abreast of the French outposts. Peering through the
bushes, Geoffrey could see the mail-clad sentinels either sitting
motionless on their horses or walking slowly to and fro to the
accompaniment of a clanking and groaning of the joints of the harness
and the squelching noise of the animals' hoofs in the mire.
The nearmost horseman was humming a chanson of Picardy, quite oblivious
of the fact that two Englishmen were almost within a stone's throw of
him; yet, though the cordon extended completely across the open ground,
through some inexplicable error the French had utterly neglected to hold
the woods on either side of the valley.
Resuming their cautious movements, Geoffrey and Gripwell skirted the
second line of outposts, where a row of fires threw its weird light upon
the crowd of soldiers, mainly engaged in drinking, singing, and
gambling, while the position of the two daring Englishmen was rendered
doubly hazardous by the constant procession of varlets and peasants who
were engaged in cutting wood to feed the watch-fires.
Still the French camp seemed a long way off, though the silken tents of
the nobles were now discernible in the glare of the huge pile of burning
faggots.
"We have gone far enough," whispered the man-at-arms.
"Nay, 'tis my purpose to press on," remarked Geoffrey. "Stay here an
thou wilt."
"That cannot be. Where thou goest I will follow," said Gripwell
doggedly.
"Then let us gather a bundle of faggots apiece, and set out boldly
towards the camp. It is in my mind to see how these Frenchmen fare."
Struck by the audacity of the squire's proposal, Gripwell could not but
assent, so, hastily collecting a heavy load of wood, the twain stumbled
upon a path where numbers of soldiers and peasants were passing to and
fro.
Unsuspected the Englishmen joined in the throng, and, bending low under
their burdens, jogged steadily towards the vast city of tents.
"Ho, there, comrade!" shouted a cross-bowman. "Bring hither that fuel;
our fire is all but out."
"Nay," replied Gripwell in good French. "That cannot be. This wood is
for my master, the Lord of Rougemont."
This encounter showed that there was no suspicion towards a stranger,
and, encouraged by the discovery, Geoffrey and his companion walked
boldly down the lines till they reached a tent that the squire knew by
reason of its size and magnificence belonged to no mean personage. Two
men-at-arms stood without the door, over which hung a shield emblazoned
with a golden oriflamme.
From within came the sounds of tankards clashing upon oaken boards, the
rattle of dice, and mingled bursts of laughter, disappointment, and
anger.
"Methought I was to hear a council of war," exclaimed Geoffrey in a low
voice, "but 'tis a roystering crew."
"Perchance in their jollity we may hear some smattering of news,"
replied Gripwell, and flinging down his burden with a gesture of utter
fatigue, he seated himself upon it, with his head resting on his arms.
Geoffrey hastened to follow his example. In the constant throng their
action seemed natural. The two guards barely condescended to notice
them, since they were some distance from the tent, which was that of no
less a personage than Charles d'Albert, Constable of France.
"A curse on thy luck, my Lord of Marle," exclaimed an excited voice. "I
have not cast a main this night. I owe thee two English earls and four
knights already."
"Nay, Falconberg, 'tis five knights by my reckoning. Without doubt these
rascally Islanders will be cheap enough ere to-morrow even, but be that
as it may, one cannot ignore the rules of the game."
"I cannot understand the Duc de Bourbon," grumbled the first speaker.
"Though I am willing to admit that he has prior claim to the person of
the King of England, he will not risk his share of the spoil. Surely my
offer of twenty thousand crowns and the Duke of York will be sufficient
inducement?"
"I am weary of casting the dice," replied Bourbon. "Ere dawn I shall be
too tired even to ride down a single English knight."
"Peste! The battle will be over in a quarter of an hour. Our first
division is strong enough to sweep these English off the face of the
earth. My Lord d'Alençon, the second division, which thou hast command
of, must be mounted, since there will be no other work left than to ride
down and slay the light-footed archers. As for thy division, my Lord
Falconberg, there will be nothing left for it to do."
"Unless it be to shout encouragement to thy men," replied Falconberg
with a laugh. "Alas! these poor Englishmen. But let's proceed. Who'll
throw with me for my last three knights?"
"We have learnt what is worth a bushel of gold, Squire Geoffrey,"
whispered Gripwell. "Let us away. As it is, the hour is wellnigh spent."
Resuming their loads, the two comrades made for the nearest fire, and,
having cast the faggots upon the smouldering embers, retraced their
footsteps towards the shelter of the woods. On the way they fell in with
a party of soldiers in search of a load of wine that had gone astray
between the camp and the village of Agincourt, and, imitating their
staggering gait and drunken song, they contrived to get clear of the
line of tents without being challenged. Then, taking advantage of the
narrow path through the forest, the two comrades succeeded in slipping
away unnoticed by their maudlin companions.
"Now let us hasten," whispered Gripwell. "Yet be cautious, for we know
not whether any enemy hath entered this part of the wood since we came
hither."
Unmolested they passed the flank of the French advanced posts, then
gaining confidence in the fact that the English outposts were but a
bow-shot off, they increased their pace.
The trunk of a tree larger than its fellows barred their path. Geoffrey
recognized the tree as having been the means of causing him to stumble
over one of its exposed roots on their outward journey. This time he
leapt lightly over the obstacle, to find himself thrown violently in
contact with a human being.
The impact hurled both to the ground, while Gripwell, unaware of what
was amiss, narrowly escaped tripping over the two struggling forms.
Noiselessly the squire and the unknown wrestled on the ground. Geoffrey
was unable to draw his poniard, nor was his antagonist able to use a
weapon; but the English lad, even in the midst of the desperate
struggle, could not help wondering why his foeman did not shout for
assistance. On his own part he knew that one cry would doubtless bring
the French outposts to the spot, and the night's work would be undone.
Whoever the stranger was, he had no lack of strength and courage, for
not until Gripwell had contrived to distinguish the combatants in the
darkness and had wound his cloak tightly round the fellow's head was the
issue decided.
"Stand by while I plunge my knife into his body," hissed the old
man-at-arms.
"Not so," whispered Geoffrey in reply. "'Tis but a short distance to the
camp, and this rascal may be of service. Help me carry him thither."
With this the stranger began to writhe and struggle again, mumbling
incoherently from the suffocating folds of Arnold's cloak. There was no
help for it; a sharp blow on the temples from the man-at-arms' powerful
fist reduced the captive to a state of semi-insensibility.
Thereupon Gripwell bound the man's arms with his own belt, secured his
feet with the folds of his cloak, and effectually gagged him by means of
a fir-cone held in position by Geoffrey's scarf. This done, the squire
raised the helpless prisoner by the shoulders, and the man-at-arms took
hold of his feet, and with their heavy burden the two comrades resumed
their way till they were greeted by the welcome sounds of the English
outposts.
"Whom hast thou there?" asked Sir Thomas Carberry, who had been
anxiously awaiting the return of his squire.
"Some fellow who stood in our path, fair sir," replied Geoffrey
breathlessly.
By this time the prisoner had recovered his senses, and by an unexpected
thrust of his feet sent Geoffrey staggering into the arms of the
Constable. At the same time he contrived, bound as he was, to wrench
himself out of Geoffrey's arms, and, falling on his feet, he swayed to
and fro in helpless rage, unable, by reason of the gag, to utter a
sound.
But as the glare of the fires fell upon his features Geoffrey found, to
his discomfiture and consternation, that his prisoner was none other
than his fellow squire, Richard Ratclyffe!