: were disregarded and while the timid stole to the rear, the brave all rushed forward to the van, crowding the division that was over-crowded before in that narrow space. More than once they were so huddled together that they had not room to couch their lances. Meanwhile the English, removing their stakes, came on with still more tremendous "bruit and noise;" the French made a slight retrograde movement, and then, so badly had the ground been chosen, they got into some newly ploughed corn-fields, where their horses sunk almost to their saddle-girths, stuck fast, or rolled over with their riders. Seeing that the van-guard was thoroughly disordered, the English archers left their stakes, which they did not use again, and slinging their bows behind them, rushed into the thickest of the mêlée, with their bill-hooks and hatchets. There, they themselves being almost without clothing, and many of them both bare-footed and bare-headed, the English archers laid about them with their bare sinewy arms, and hit fearful knocks against the steel-clad knights of France. The Constable, and many of the most illustrious of the French knights, were presently killed by these despised plebeians, who, without any assistance from the chivalry of England, dispersed the whole body. Then the second division opened to receive the sad remnants of the first-a movement at tended with fresh disorder. At this moment Duke Anthony of Brabant, who had just arrived on the field, but who, in his impatient haste, had left his reinforcements behind him, headed a fresh charge of horse, but he was instantly slain by the English, who kept advancing and destroying all that opposed them. The second division of the French, however, closed up, and kept its ground, though the weight of their armour made them sink knee-deep in the mire. Henry now brought up his men-at-arms, and calling in his brave English bowmen, he formed them again into good order. These lightly equipped troops found little inconvenience from the nature of the soil: they had the free use of their limbs; they were as fresh as when they first came into the battle. They gave another loud huzza as the king led them on to a fresh charge. It was now that the real battle took place, and that Henry's life was repeatedly put in the greatest peril. His brother, the Duke of Clarence, was wounded and knocked down, and would have been killed or made prisoner, if Henry had not placed himself by his fallen brother's side and beaten off the assailants. Soon after, a band of eighteen knights, bearing the banner of the Lord of Croy, who had bound themselves with an oath to take or kill the King of England, made a furious charge upon him. One of these knights struck the king with his mace or battle-axe, and the blow was so violent that Henry staggered and fell on his knees; but his brave men instantly closed round him, and killed every one of the eighteen knights. The Duke of Alençon then forced his way up to the English royal standard. With a blow of his battle-axe he beat the Duke of York to the ground; and when Henry stood forth to defend his relative, he hit him over the head and knocked off part of the gold crown which he wore on his helmet. But this was the last blow that Alençon ever struck: the English closed upon him; and, seeing his danger, he cried out to the king, "I surrender to you-I am the Duke of Alençon." Henry held out his hand. It was too late-the Duke was slain. His fall finished the battle, for his followers fled in dismay; and the third division of the French army, which had never drawn sword, and which was in itself more than double the number of the whole English force, fell back, and galloped from the field. Up to this point the English had not embarrassed themselves with prisoners, but they now took them in heaps. An immense number were thus secured, when Henry heard a terrible noise in his rear, where the priests of his army were sitting on horseback among the baggage, and he soon saw a hostile force drawn out in that direction. At the same time the retreating third division of the French seemed to rally and raise their banners afresh. But it was a false alarm. The body in the rear were only some five or six hundred peasants who had entered Maisoncelles and had fallen upon the baggage in the hope of obtaining plunder and driving off some of the English horses; and what appeared a rallying in front was only a momentary halt, for the third division were presently galloping off the field harder than ever. As soon as Henry discovered his mistake he gave orders to stop the carnage and to look after the wounded. Then, attended by his principal barons, he rode over the field, and sent out the heralds, as usual, to examine the coats of arms of the knights and princes that had fallen. This was a mournful task; for sixteen hundred brave Englishmen lay upon the field, among whom were the Earl of Suffolk and the Duke of York. In their death Shakspere has presented us with a most touching picture. But much greater and much more frightful was the loss on the side of the French: "never had so many and such noble men fallen in one battle. In all there perished on the field eight thousand gentlemen, knights, or squires, including one hundred and twenty great lords that had each a banner of his own. The whole chivalry of France was cropped. Seven near relations of King Charles-Brabant, Nevers, the Duke of Bar and his two brothers, the Constable d'Albret, and Alençon—were all slain. Among the most distinguished prisoners, who were far less numerous than the dead of the same class, were the Duke of Orleans, the Count of Richemont, the Marshal Boucicault, the Duke of Bourbon, the Counts of Eu and Vendome, and the Lords of Harcourt and Craon. While his people were occupied in stripping the dead, Henry called to him the herald of the King of France, the king-at-arms, who was named Mountjoye, and with him several other heralds, both English and French, and he said unto them, "We have not made this slaughter, but the Almighty, as we believe, for the sins of France." And after this he asked them to whom the honour of the victory was due? Mountjoye replied, "To the King of England; to him ought victory to be given, and not to the King of France." Then Henry asked the name of the castle that he saw pretty near to him. They answered that it was called Azincourt. Then," quoth Henry, "since all battles ought to be named after the nearest castle, let this battle bear henceforward and lastingly the name of the battle of Azincourt." The Duke of Orleans, who had been dragged out wounded from among the dead, was sorely discomfited at the sudden turn affairs had taken. Henry went up to console him: "How fare you, my cousin?" said he; "and why do you refuse to eat and drink?" The duke answered that he was determined to fast. "Not so,make good cheer," said the king mildly; "if God hath given me grace to win this victory, I acknowledge that it is through no merits of mine own. I believe that God hath willed that the French should be punished; and if what I have heard be true, no wonder at it; for they tell me that never were seen such a disorder, such a licence of wickedness, such debauchery, such bad vices as now reign in France. It is pitiful and horrible to hear it all, and certes the wrath of the Lord must have been awakened?" And in truth Henry could hardly have spoken worse of France at this time, than it spoke for itself. On the next morning, when the English left Maisoncelles, the king and the duke of Orleans rode side by side, conversing in a friendly manner. The army passed over the field of battle. They stripped some of the bodies, and when they were gone some of the neighbouring peasantry came to the scene of horror to do the same frightful work. But the Count of Charolais, afterwards Philip the Good, eldest son of the duke of Burgundy, was at the castle of Aire, not far from the field of battle, in which he had heen prevented from joining by the strict orders of his father; and when he heard the doleful news he was inconsolable, and refused to take any nourishment. But he sent the bailiff of Aire and the abbot of Ruis seauville to superintend the burial of the French, while he himself attended the funeral of his two uncles the dukes of Brabant and Nevers. The abbot and the bailiff bought twenty-five roods of land, and on this land three immense deep pits were dug, and five thousand eight hundred men were cast into them. Then the bishop of Guines went down, sprinkled holy water upon the ground, and blessed this vast sepulchre of the aristocracy of France. Many hundreds, who had friends living near, were buried with more decency in the neighbouring churches, or carried to their own castles. The English conquerors marched slowly on to Calais, for they were heavy laden with the weight of their spoil. When they got there Henry called a council of war. Sickness still prevailed in his skeleton of an army: disease and want raged in all the near provinces of France. He had not only saved his honour, but had gained the greatest military glory: he wanted men, he wanted money. All these considerations pointed homeward, and it was determined that he should forthwith return to England. Then," says honest John Stow, "with all vigilance the navy was prepared, and by the king's commandment the lords and great estates of the prisoners of France, to a great number, were brought into that ship wherein the king was determined to pass the sea. At this their passage the sea was marvellously boisterous and rough, insomuch that two of the English ships perished in the floods, by reason whereof the French prisoners were so encumbered and vexed that the day of their passage seemed to them no less bitter and terrible than that day wherein they were taken at Azincourt; nor they could not marvel enough how the king should have so great strength so easily to resist and endure the rage and boisterousness of the sea, without accombrance and disease of his stomach!" The people of England were literally mad with joy and triumph. At Dover they rushed into the sea to meet him, and carried him ashore on their shoulders. Every where on his way noblemen, priests, and people came forth to welcome him; and on his entrance into London, the mayor, with the aldermen and crafts, to the number of four hundred, riding in red, with hoods red and white, met him at Blackheath, coming from Eltham, and so conducted him in triumph through the city, where the gates and streets were garnished and hung with precious cloths of arras, and where the people got drunk on something more than joy, for the conduits through the city ran none other than good and sweet wines, and that abundantly. There were many towers and stages in the streets, richly adorned, and upon the height of them sat small children singing praises and lauds unto God; for King Henry would have no ditties made in honour of his victory, but ascribed it wholly unto God. Loud were the plaudits of the people in honour of Henry; and during his whole reign there was scarcely a complaint made against him or his ministers --nothing beyond a faint expression of regret that his wars in France should keep him so long away from his loving subjects. 129.-THE BATTLE OF AGINCOURT. SCENE I.-The French Camp. Enter Dauphin, Orleans, Rambures, and others. Orl. The sun doth gild our armour; up, my lords. SHAKSPERE. Dau. Via!-les eaux et la terre- Enter Constable. Now, my lord constable! Con. Hark, how our steeds for present service neigh. Dau. Mount them, and make incision in their hides; That their hot blood may spin in English eyes, And doubt them with superfluous courage: Ha! Ram. What, will you have them weep our horses' blood? How shall we then behold their natural tears? Enter a Messenger. Mess. The English are embattled, you French peers. And your fair show shall suck away their souls, That our French gallants shall to-day draw out, And sheathe for lack of sport: let us but blow on them, The vapour of our valour will o'erturn them. 'Tis positive 'gainst all exceptions, lords, That our superfluous lackeys, and our peasants, Who, in unnecessary action, swarm About our squares of battle,—were enow Though we upon this mountain's basis by, But that our honours must not. What's to say ? And all is done. Then let the trumpets sound That England shall couch down in fear, and yield. Enter Grandpré. Grand. Why do you stay so long, my lords of France? Yon island carrions, desperate of their bones, Ill-favour'dly become the morning field: Their ragged curtains poorly are let loose, And our air shakes them passing scornfully. Big Mars seems bankrout in their beggar'd host, And faintly through a rusty beaver peeps. The horsemen sit like fixed candlesticks, With torch-staves in their hand; and their poor jades Lies foul with chaw'd grass, still and motionless; Fly o'er them all, impatient for their hour. To demonstrate the life of such a battle In life so lifeless as it shows itself. Con. They have said their prayers, and they stay for death. And after fight with them? Con. I stay but for my guidon. To the field: I will the banner from a trumpet take, And use it for my haste. Come, come away! SCENE II.-The English Camp. [Exeunt. Enter the English Host; Gloster, Bedford, Exeter, Salisbury, and Westmoreland. Glo. Where is the king? Bed. The king. himself is rode to view their battle. West. Of fighting men they have full threescore thousand. Exe. There's five to one; besides, they all are fresh. Sal. God's arm strike with us! 't is a fearful odds. God be wi' you, princes all; I'll to my charge : My dear lord Gloster, and my good lord Exeter, And my kind kinsman, warriors all-adieu ! Bed. Farewell, good Salisbury: and good luck go with thee! And yet I do thee wrong to mind thee of it, For thou art fram'd of the firm truth of valour. [Exit Salisbury. Enter King Henry. But one ten thousand of those men in England K. Hen. What's he that wishes so ? My cousin Westmoreland ?—No, my fair cousin : To do our country loss; and if to live, The fewer men the greater share of honour. God's will! I pray thee, wish not one man more. Nor care I who doth feed upon my cost; It yearns me not if men my garments wear; I am the most offending soul alive. No, 'faith, my coz, wish not a man from England • |