THE BATTLE OF AGINCOURT
"A scurvy trick hast thou played on me," exclaimed Ratclyffe when the
amused soldiers had released him from his bonds. "By the Rood I'll think
twice ere I venture again into the forest to seek for thee."
"Hadst thou but spoken thou wouldst not have been mishandled thus,"
replied Geoffrey, who had by now expressed his sorrow for the mistake.
"Spoken! Forsooth! Did I not try to speak the moment I heard Gripwell
discussing with thee on the subject of letting out my life's blood? But
what with being wellnigh smothered by his cloak, and——"
"Nay, say no more, squire," interrupted Sir Thomas. "'Twas all a
mistake, and beyond a shrewd blow—of which we shall have plenty ere
long, I trow—there is little scath. Now, Geoffrey, the nature of thy
report?"
Briefly the squire told his master of what had occurred, the nature of
the ground, the position of the French outposts, and, most important of
all, the conversation in the tent of d'Albert relating to the plan of
attack.
"By St. Paul! Thou hast entered their camp?" exclaimed the knight. "This
is almost beyond belief. But as it is we now know that we can occupy the
woods on the Frenchmen's flanks without let or hindrance. I'll now to
the King, but, rest assured, thou wilt have full credit for thine
enterprise. Ay, and thy man-at-arms also," added Sir Thomas, as his
squire began to remind him that Arnold had shared the perils of the
desperate errand.
Thoroughly tired out, Geoffrey laid himself down by one of the fires,
and, heedless of the steady rain, he was soon fast asleep.
Meanwhile, Sir Thomas Carberry had hastened to make his report to the
King. Henry had taken little repose, for having completed his inspection
of the lines in the guise of an ordinary officer, he retired to his tent
to don all his armour save his gold-encircled bascinet. This done he had
mass celebrated in his quarters, followed by a general council, at which
all the commanders of divisions were ordered to attend.
"Most excellent service," exclaimed the King when Sir Thomas had
delivered his report. "See to it, Uncle Exeter; send at least four
hundred lances to the wood on the enemy's left flank. Half that number
of archers are to take up their position on the opposite side of the
valley. Impress upon them the utmost importance of concealment till the
word is borne them."
Silently the troops intended for the ambush moved towards the stations
allotted them, and ere the council was broken up, the Duke of Exeter
returned with the news that the manœuvre had been successfully executed.
"Now, my lords, the day breaks," exclaimed Henry. "Let us to our
stations and do our duty as becomes Englishmen. To-day, fair lords, is
the Feast of the blessed saints Crispin and Crispian. From this day till
all times will our names be linked with them, if we acquit ourselves
nobly. Therefore let us be of good courage, remembering that our souls
and bodies are in God's holy keeping."
With the dawn the rain ceased, and across the sodden valley the trumpets
of the little English army rang out loud and clear as the sun rose in a
cloudless sky. Eagerly the chilled and shivering men-at-arms and archers
flocked to take up their positions, glad that the dreary period of
inaction was over.
In the centre, under the Duke of Kent, stood the dismounted men-at-arms,
resting stolidly on their spears and axes, while as an afterthought a
sprinkling of archers took their stand in front of the heavy troops. On
either flank were hundreds of bowmen under Lords Beaumont and
Willoughby. In addition to their deadly longbow and their swords and
axes, each archer bore an iron-shod stake.
Barely twenty paces in the rear of the front rank were marshalled the
reserves, composed chiefly of spearmen, under the command of the Earl of
Exeter.
The army being drawn up in line of battle, Henry, mounted on a white
palfrey, rode slowly between the ranks. He had now donned his surcoat
emblazoned with the lions of England and the lilies of France, while on
his head he wore a polished steel bascinet which was encircled by a very
rich crown of gold, rendering its wearer a conspicuous object in the
field.
"Certes," exclaimed the veteran Lord Camoys to the Constable of
Portchester, as his gaze travelled from the seemingly countless
multitude of Frenchmen to the six thousand Englishmen standing
motionless in the ranks. "What would some of the good knights who have
remained in England give to be here?"
"What sayest thou, my lord Camoys?" asked the King, who had overheard
the knight's remark. "Dost wish for more good Englishmen to be here?
Nay, I would not have a single man more. If God give us the victory we
know that we owe it to His goodness. If He does not, the fewer we are
the less will be the loss to England. But let us fight with our usual
courage, and God and the justice of our cause will protect us."
Having completed his inspection the King took up his position at the
head of the second line, with the Duke of Gloucester, Mowbray, the Earl
Marshal, and the Earls of Oxford and Suffolk, while above him fluttered
the Royal Standard, leaving no doubt as to the identity of the King of
England.
Meanwhile, the French had been mustering in dense masses across the
valley, till their three divisions, each ten files deep, seemed to
resemble a solid wall of steel, dominated by a forest of banners. At
length their preparations were complete, but there seemed no inclination
on their part to open the battle.
Suddenly, to the surprise of the English, three French knights, armed
cap-à-pied, rode fearlessly across the intervening plain. Some of the
archers began to bend their bows, but were restrained by their officers.
"They bear a message," shouted Lord Camoys to those nearest him. "Open
ranks and let them pass, but take heed that they see not the pointed
stakes."
Haughtily the three Frenchmen rode through the gap in the front rank and
reined in before the Royal Standard, where Henry, now on foot, awaited
them.
"Sire," exclaimed the foremost knight. "I am Jacques de Helly, Maréchal
of France."
"That we do perceive," replied the King curtly, "both by thy cognizance
and by reason of the fact that thou wert, and still ought to be, our
prisoner in England."
"'Tis on that matter that I am come," replied de Helly. "'Tis reported
that I have broken my parole. Let it be known to all men that 'tis
false. To all or any who would gainsay me, I hereby offer to meet them
in single combat, here betwixt the armies."
"'Tis no time for single combats," replied Henry sternly. "Hence, lest I
lose patience with thee. Also go tell thy countrymen to prepare for
battle at once."
"Sire," exclaimed de Helly, his swarthy features livid with anger, "I
shall receive no order from you; Charles is our liege lord; him we obey,
and for him we'll fight when the time comes."
"Away, then," replied the King. "Take care that we are not before you,"
and as the haughty Frenchmen turned and rode beyond the English front,
Henry shouted in a loud and ringing voice, "Advance banners in the name
of God and St. George!"
Standing in his stirrups the grey-haired Sir Thomas Erpyingham threw his
warder in the air—the signal for the advance. Instantly the little
English host was electrified into activity, and with shouts of "St.
George for Merrie England," the foremost division began to close upon
the seemingly overwhelming masses of the enemy.
Still the Frenchmen showed no signs of advancing. Something must be done
to goad them to move to meet the attack, otherwise the handful of
Englishmen would be thrown away upon the solid phalanx of French steel.
From his position on the right of the men-at-arms of the Hampshire
division, Geoffrey saw the Frenchmen standing in close ranks, regarding
their on-coming foe with looks of disdain. Now, the foremost division
was on the edge of the intervening belt of bog-land. A few more steps
and the natural defence on which the king had placed so much hope would
be turned from an advantage into a hindrance, then——
"Halt," shouted the young Duke of Kent in a voice that was borne high
above the subdued hum of the ranks. "Archers! Loose wholly together!"
There was very little of nervous haste on the part of the bowmen. Even
the comparatively raw recruits were as steady as the most exacting
leader could desire. Hardly had the words of command ceased when the air
was torn by the sharp swish of the speeding arrows, and at less than
half a bow-shot the French received the death-dealing blast.
In the twinkling of an eye their foremost ranks were thrown into the
utmost disorder. 'Gainst the deadly cloth-yard shaft, plate armour,
leathern coat, and iron buckler alike were useless. Knights and
men-at-arms rolled on the ground, transfixed, not once but many times,
by the goose-wing-tipped arrows.
But amongst the struggling press of Frenchmen brave men were to be found
in plenty. Disentangling themselves from the disorderly mass, the
mounted men with lance at rest spurred towards the archers.
"Stand fast behind your stakes," shouted the company commander,
realizing that once the heavy cavalry came within striking distance of
the lightly armed archers the latter would be cut to pieces and
scattered like chaff.
On came the French horse, knee to knee, plunging heavily in the thick
tenacious clay, while unceasingly the hail of arrows was maintained till
the line of stakes was faced by an almost insurmountable barrier of dead
and dying steeds and their riders.
To add to the confusion the English archers in ambush delivered a raking
fire, till, losing men both in the flanks and rear of their division,
besides those who perished in the charge upon the palisades, the French
began to give back.
"Forward—men-at-arms and archers!" shouted a ringing voice that all who
heard recognized as the King's. Conspicuous by his gold-emblazoned
helmet and the royal arms on his surcoat, Henry led the counter attack
in person.
The deadly bows were dropped or slung across the archers' backs, and
with axe, sword, spear and mace the dismounted men-at-arms and bowmen
hurled themselves upon the swaying, demoralized mob of their enemies.
For a while the battle resolved itself into a series of desperate
conflicts, all order being thrown to the winds. Often the combatants had
no room to ply their weapons, the two-handed swords of the French
men-at-arms being useless when opposed to the knives and daggers of the
English archers. So thick did the press become that the King's brother,
the Duke of York, was crushed to death betwixt two mailed Frenchmen.
Into the thickest of the mêlée plunged the Constable of Portchester,
with Geoffrey, Oswald and Ratclyffe close at his heels as became their
duties; but ere long the heir of Warblington, separated from his
comrades, found himself confronted by a tall knight whose armour bore no
device. In an instant they closed, Geoffrey's antagonist endeavouring to
hurl the squire to the earth, while the young Englishman attempted to
deliver a poniard stroke between the joints of the knight's armour.
As they fought an archer sprang upon the squire's foeman, and with a
mighty heave wrenched his bascinet from his gorget, disclosing the
features of the ex-monk Olandyne. The next instant the recreant had
fallen with the archer's knife buried in his throat.
Suddenly a shout arose, "To me, Englishmen!" and Geoffrey perceived the
Duke of Gloucester hard pressed by four or five French knights. Unable
to make good his defence the Duke was already wounded, yet he stubbornly
continued the unequal combat.
One of the foremost of his attackers was a broad-shouldered knight whose
surcoat had been torn away during the earlier stages of the conflict.
His shield, too, had been lost, but armed with a heavy battle-axe, he
pressed the Duke with demoniacal fury.
In reply to the shout for aid Geoffrey made his way through the
struggling crowds towards the Duke, but ere he could disengage himself,
Gloucester was beaten to the earth by a mighty sweep of the Frenchman's
battle-axe.
The next instant the King himself had stepped across his brother's
prostrate body, and with shield outstretched and ready blade he defended
the helpless Duke from the combined assault of the French knights.
But help was at hand. Geoffrey and three others threw themselves upon
the King's assailants, Henry directing his attention to the unknown
knight of the axe. In this he had enough to do, for the Frenchman's
weapon descended with fearful force upon the King of England's helmet.
Luckily the blow was a glancing one, yet it clove the golden crown on
his bascinet, and brought Henry to his knees.
But the unknown's triumph was short-lived. Regaining his feet the King
in turn sent his antagonist reeling to the earth, while, carried away by
the heat of the battle, his three subjects were about to slay the man
who had so nearly achieved his purpose.
"Hold, I yield! I am Alençon," exclaimed the prostrate knight. But the
offer of surrender came too late. Ere the King could stretch forth his
hand to protect his enemy, the Duc d'Alençon had received his
death-blow.
"Nay, fair sirs," exclaimed the King breathlessly, "I am unhurt; yet, an
I were, 'tis no time for condolences."
Henry had spoken truly, for approaching him in a compact body were
eighteen knights, each of whom had sworn a solemn oath to kill or take
the King of England or perish in the attempt. The Royal Standard of
England had served them as a guide only too well.
In an instant Geoffrey was swept to the earth by the desperate rush, one
of the knights who had gone to the King's assistance was slain, and
Henry with three of his followers was left to meet the determined
attack.
Once again the King, defending himself with courage and coolness, was
beaten down upon his knees, but others of his supporters came to the
rescue, and the eighteen Frenchmen kept their vow—they died to a man.
Slowly Geoffrey extricated himself from the mire and regained his feet.
Beyond being sorely bruised he was unhurt, and with the knowledge that
the King was safe he plunged again into the press.
But already the tide of battle had turned. Unless a surprising rally
should take place on the part of the enemy the conflict was decided. The
first division of the foe had recoiled upon the second, and now both
were assailed by the victorious English, and the remains of both were
seeking safety in flight. As for the third line, the fate of their
comrades had struck them with panic. On the approach of the four hundred
English lances, who had hitherto remained in ambush with remarkable
self-restraint, they, too, fled, and the victory was complete.
In an endeavour to find Sir Thomas Carberry, Geoffrey made his way
betwixt the piles of corpses to where a few valiant French knights still
held out. For a while the squire searched in vain, till he perceived
seven or eight surcoated archers, whom he recognized as being
Warblington men, standing in a semi-circle with brandished weapons.
As Geoffrey drew near the object of their position became apparent.
Standing with his back against a tree was a Frenchman. He was clad in
complete mail, but in spite of this he had received more than one wound.
The plume had been shorn from his crest, his shield was splintered, his
armour cracked and dented, and his sword, broken close to the hilt, lay
at his feet. Battle-axe in hand he stood at bay, disdaining to receive
quarter at the hands of base archers, while his antagonists hesitated to
come within reach of the menacing weapon.
"Send a shaft through him," suggested one.
About to act upon this advice, an archer bent his bow.
"Hold!" exclaimed Geoffrey, grasping the man by the shoulder. Even as he
did so the arrow sped, but wide of the mark. Angrily the archer turned
about.
"Who art thou to stand betwixt an honest Englishman and a rascally
Frenchman?" he demanded, for he failed to recognize his young leader,
whose armour was covered from helm to solleret in mud and gore.
"Dost not know me, Hubert?"
"By Our Lady, 'tis Master Geoffrey. Thy pardon, young sir. But this is
our affair, therefore, come not to prevent us working our will on this
thick-headed Frenchman."
"Have ye not demanded his surrender?"
"Ay," replied the men in a chorus. "And he refuses."
"Sir Knight," exclaimed the squire earnestly. "Wilt yield?"
"Art thou a gentleman of quality, sir?" replied the Frenchman. "If so——"
"Nay, since we are to be done out of his ransom let him die,"
interrupted the archers sturdily.
"Fret not yourselves," exclaimed Geoffrey. "Were he dead not a groat
would ye receive. On the other hand, if he surrender the ransom I'll
bestow upon you."
"Then we are content," replied the soldiers, and they moved away.
"Wilt yield, sir Knight?" repeated the squire. "I am a gentleman of
coat-armour, and will give thee every consideration befitting a gallant
and debonair gentleman of France."
"Fair sir, I yield," but as the vanquished knight tendered the hilt of
his axe he toppled and fell heavily to the ground.
Drawing his poniard Geoffrey knelt beside the unconscious man and deftly
severed the laces of his bascinet. Upon removing the heavy headpiece he
found to his surprise that his captive was none other than Sir Raoul
d'Aulx, Seigneur de Maissons and the knight who held Sir Oliver Lysle in
courteous captivity.
In vain Geoffrey searched for fresh water. In the furrows and ditches
there was water in plenty, but discoloured by the blood of friend and
foe. But to the squire's intense relief the colour began to return to
the face of Sir Raoul, and at length he opened his eyes.
"Ho, Geoffrey, I have sought thee high and low: methought thou hadst
bitten the dust," exclaimed a well-known voice as Oswald Steyning
approached, his unhelmed head swathed in a blood-stained scarf.
"I have indeed bitten the dust, Oswald," replied Geoffrey with a smile,
"yet, thanks be to God, I have received no hurt. But thou bearest some
token of the fray?"
"A mere cut," replied Sir Oliver's squire lightly.
"And Sir Thomas and the rest of the company?"
"Beyond a few slight but honourable wounds Sir Thomas is unscathed, but
alas! Ratclyffe is no more."
"Tis sad news. And Gripwell——?"
"As blithe as a maid on May Day. Certes, he hath good cause, for but a
short while ago I saw him with mine own eyes taking two French knights
to the camp. If he see England again never another day's work will he
need to do, for his prisoners are worth four thousand crowns apiece."
"I pray thee lend me thine aid with this one," said Geoffrey, pointing
to his captive. "'Tis none other than Sir Raoul d'Aulx."
"Therein thou art fortunate," replied Oswald. "Let us quit this field,
for my stomach turns at the sight of it."
With a squire supporting him on either side Sir Raoul was placed on his
feet and assisted towards the rear, where the baggage and horses had
been placed under guard, and where the captives were being taken for
safety; but, ere Geoffrey and his charge reached the fringe of the
corpse-encumbered field, a man-at-arms rode past them in hot haste.
"Look to yourselves," he shouted. "We are attacked in the rear. The camp
is taken!"