"'I avow to God, quoth Harry,I shall not lefe behynde,May I mete with BernardOr Bayard the blynde.'
"'I avow to God, quoth Harry,
I shall not lefe behynde,
May I mete with Bernard
Or Bayard the blynde.'
Now I understand your Grace, for I have come upon the track of these men, and somewhat wondered to hear in the mouth of hinds and peasants, the name of Woodville, or Vodeville as they called it, coupled with curses. Nay, more, my Liege, I saw in the good town of Peronne, through which I passed, a man in my own armour, at the head of a large troop of men-at-arms."
"I saw him, too, Dickon;" cried the voice of old Sir Philip Beauchamp, "as he followed our rear at Pont St. Remie; and would have sworn that it was thyself, had I not known thy true heart from a boy."
"A strange tale, sir knight," said the King, without relaxing his grave frown; "and the more strange, when coupled with the facts of your having never received my commands to return, sent long ago, and my messenger having brought me word, as if from your mouth, that you could not obey, as you had taken service with the Duke of Burgundy for two years and a day."
"He is a false knave, my Liege," replied the knight; "and, as to my ever having forgotten your Grace's commands even for a day, not to engage myself for long, that I can prove, for thank God my contract with the good Duke John I have always kept about me. Here it is; and if you look, royal Sir, you will see I have not been unmindful of my duty."
Henry took the paper, which Woodville produced, from the young knight's hand, and read it over attentively, pausing at one clause and pronouncing the words aloud, "And it is, moreover, agreed between the said high and mighty Prince Philip, Count of Charolois, and the said knight, that should the King of England, Henry the Fifth of that name, require the aid and service of the said Sir Richard of Woodville, he shall be at liberty to retire at any time without let or hindrance from the forces of the said Count of Charolois or of his father and redoubted Lord, the Duke of Burgundy, together with all such men as have accompanied the said knight from England; and, moreover, that he shall receive all the passes, safe-conducts, and letters of protection which may be needful for him to return to his own land in safety, and that, without delay or hesitation, but even at a moment's notice."
The King when he had read these words gave a momentary glance around; but then, turning to the young knight again, after examining the date of the paper and the signature, "You were at this time assuredly in your devoir," he said; "and this was but a month before my messenger set out; but we have heard from Sir Philip de Morgan some strange tales of adventures in the town of Ghent, which may have changed your purposes."
"My Lord, I do beseech your Grace," answered Woodville, gravely, "to give ear to no strange tales till they be fully proved. I have already suffered from such stories, and have disproved them to one here present much interested to know the truth;" and he turned his eyes towards Sir John Grey, who stood beside the Earl of Warwick. "For one so long a prisoner, not knowing where to find a single person who was with him at a remote period, it is not easy in a moment to show the real state of every fact alleged; but if your royal time may serve, I am ready to tell the simple tale of the last two years; and if I afterwards prove not to your own clear conviction, that every word I speak is truth, send my head to the block when you will."
"You shall have full time, sir knight," replied the King; "at present, it is late; and though we must sleep but little, yet some repose every man must have. Your tale cannot be heard to-night. However, you now know that you are charged first with refusing to serve your King in arms against his enemies, which may, perhaps, be false. This paper affords some presumption against the accusation--Secondly, you are charged with following our royal host with men of Burgundy, and in arms levying war against your Sovereign. You have, we are told, been seen by many, so traitorously employed, and your name, you yourself allow, is in the mouths of all the peasantry."
Henry paused a moment, as if expecting assent; but Woodville only replied by a question, "May I ask, Sire," he said, "if a certain Sir Simeon of Roydon is in your host?"
"Ha!" cried the King, his face lighting up, "what would you say on that score?"
"Simply that I have suspicions, mighty Prince," replied the young knight; "butIwill charge no man without proof. These two charges are false, and I will make it manifest they are so; first by testimony; then by my arm. Is there aught else against me?"
"Alas, there is," answered the King; "and the most grave of all. Have you brought that letter which I sent for, my lord?"
"Yes, Sire," replied the Earl of Arundel, stepping forward and placing a paper in the King's hands. "That is the one your Grace meant, I believe."
"The same," answered Henry, gazing upon it with a countenance both stern and sad. "Come forward, Sir Richard of Woodville. Is this your hand-writing?"
Woodville looked at it, and recognised at once the letter which he had written to Sir John Grey whilst in prison. "It is, my Liege," he replied boldly, looking in the King's face with surprise. "I wrote that letter; but I know not how it can affect me."
"That will be proved hereafter, sir," answered the King, in a stern tone; "but remember, I have doomed my own blood to death for the acts which this letter prompted; and, by my honour and my life, I will not spare the man that wrote it. According to the right of every Englishman, you shall be tried and judged by your peers; but when the axe struck the neck of Cambridge, it crushed out the name of mercy from my heart. In me you find no grace."
"My Lord, I need none," replied Richard of Woodville, in a tone firm, yet respectful, "for I have done no wrong. I never yet did hear that there was any crime in a captive writing to a friend for ransom. This letter prompted nothing; and I am in much surprise to hear your royal words announce therein a matter of complaint against me."
"The man to whom it was written, sir," said the King, "proved himself a traitor, and took the gold of France to sell his sovereign's life, and his country's welfare to the enemy."
Richard of Woodville gazed in surprise and bewilderment from the King to Sir John Grey, and from Sir John Grey to the King, while the father of her he loved looked not less astonished than himself. But Henry after a short pause added aloud, "Remove him, Sir William Porter. If God give us good success in the coming fight, he shall have fair trial and due judgment. If the will of heaven fight against us, though perchance he may escape to live, I do believe, from what I have known of him in former days, that he will find bitter punishment in his own heart for this dark deed;" and he struck his fingers sharply upon the paper, which he still held in his hand.
"Some way--I know not what--you are deceived, my Liege," said Richard of Woodville, with perfect calmness. "However, I have but one favour to ask, and that is, that you will not let a false and lying accusation so weigh against me as to deprive me of my right and glory--that of fighting for my King, I would say; and I pledge you my honour and my soul that, if the day be lost, which God forfend, I will not survive the battle; if it be won, I will bring my head to your Grace's feet, to do with as seems meet to you; for I am no traitor, so help me heaven! and on that score I fear neither the judgment of man nor that of God."
"I know that you are brave right well, Sir Richard," answered the King; "but we will have no traitors fight upon our side."
The young knight cast his eyes bitterly towards the ground; and Henry could see the fingers of his hand clenched tight into the palm; but Sir Henry Dacre stepped forward, and said, "I will be his bail, my Liege."
"And I too, royal sir," cried old Sir Philip Beauchamp; "I will plight land and liberty, life and honour, that he is as true as my good sword. Have I not known him from a babe?"
"You are his uncle, sir," answered the King; "and, in this case, cannot judge."
"I am in no way akin to him, my gracious Sovereign," said Sir John Grey, advancing from the side of the Earl of Warwick; "but I fear not also to be his bail. My life for his, if he be not true."
Richard of Woodville crossed his arms upon his chest; and, raising his head as his friends spoke, looked proudly round, saying, "There is something to live for, after all."
At the same moment, Henry turned to the Duke of York, and spoke a word or two with him and the Duke of Clarence.
"Your request cannot be granted," he said, in a milder tone; "but yet, we will deal with you in all lenity, Sir Richard; and, therefore, we will commit you to the ward of Sir John Grey, with strict orders, however, that he hold you as a close prisoner till after your trial. And now, I can hear no more; for the night is well spent, and we must march at dawn. Take him, Sir John; you have a guard, and answer to me for him with your life."
"I will, my Liege," replied Sir John Grey, advancing, and taking the young knight's arm. "Come, Richard, you shall be my guest. I have no doubts;" and, bowing to the King, he retired from the presence.
Sir Philip Beauchamp and Sir Harry Dacre followed quickly, and overtook them on the stairs; and the old knight shook his nephew playfully by the shoulders, exclaiming, "We will confound the knaves yet, Dickon. But what is this letter?'
"Merely one I wrote to Sir John Grey," replied Richard of Woodville; "beseeching him to communicate with the bearer touching my ransom."
"I never received it," replied Sir John Grey. "It did not reach my hands; but, please God, I will see it ere I sleep."
"I must fight at this battle," said Richard of Woodville, thoughtfully; "I must fight at this battle, my noble friends."
Sir John Grey replied not, but shook his head gravely, and led the way to the house where he was lodged.
Spread out in a long line over the face of the country, the English army occupied a number of villages, keeping a good watch lest the enemy, large bodies of whom had been apparent during the morning, should take them by surprise and overwhelm them by numbers. Small parties of the freshest men were lodged in tents between the different villages, so that a constant communication might be kept up, and support be ready for any point attacked; and, throughout the whole host, reigned that stern and resolute spirit, the peculiar characteristic of the English soldiery, and which has assured them the victory in so many fields, against more impetuous, but less determined, adversaries. Yet none, however resolute and brave in Henry's army, could help feeling that a great and perilous day was before them, when it was known, that at least a hundred and twenty-five thousand men, comprising the most renowned chivalry of Europe, were collected to oppose a force of less than twenty-five thousand, worn with a long and difficult march, and weakened by sickness and want of provisions.
Nevertheless, during the whole night of Thursday, the 24th of October, from hamlet and village, from priory and castle, from tent and field, wherever the English were quartered, rose up wild bursts of martial music floating on the air to the French camp, as, round the innumerable watch-fires which lighted the whole sky with their lurid glare, sat the myriads the enemy in their wide extended position at Roussauville and Agincourt.
In one of the small villages near the head-quarters of the King, was stationed Sir John Grey, who now having recovered all the great possessions of his family, appeared in the field at the head of a large body of men, whose services under his banner procured for him, at an after period, as the reader is probably aware, the earldom of Tankerville. The house which he inhabited during that night, was the dwelling of a farmer; and in one of the small rooms thereof sat Richard of Woodville, at about eleven o'clock at night, conversing with Mary's father, with a somewhat gloomy and anxious air.
"I have seen it myself, Richard," said Sir John Grey; "the superscription is clear and distinct--'To Sir Thomas Grey, Knight,'--and not one word is mentioned therein of anything like ransom."
"Then it has been falsified!" cried Richard of Woodville; "for my letter was to you. Why should I write to Sir Thomas Grey, a man I know nought of? I never saw him--hardly ever heard of him. Even now I am scarcely aware of who he was, or what he did."
"He was an arch villain, Richard," replied the knight. "The only one, of all the three, who took the gold of France. Cambridge and Scroop has other views, which they nobly hid within their own bosoms, lest they should injure others; but this man was a traitor indeed, and he, ere his death, gave this letter, it seems, into the King's own hands, as that which began his communication with the enemy. He even laid his death at your door, for having written to him by the French suborner.--But here is Sir Henry Dacre.--What is it you seek, good knight? You seem eager about something."
"There are people without requiring to speak with you, Sir John," answered Woodville's friend. "They have got a man in their hands, who, they say, is a knave, sent to you by one you know."
"I want no knaves," replied Sir John Grey; "but I will see who it is;" and he went out.
"Now, what speed, my friend?" continued Dacre, grasping Woodville's hand; "what says Sir John?"
"That it must not be," said Richard of Woodville. "That his duty to the King would not suffer it, even were I his son."
"Then we must try other means," answered Dacre hastily. "You shall fight to-morrow, Woodville. God forbid that you should lose a field like this. You shall take my armour, and I will ride in a different suit. Only be ready, at a moment's notice," he added; "for as soon as Sir John is in the field, I will bear you off from the men he leaves on guard."
Woodville smiled gladly; for certain of his own honour and of his own conduct, he scrupled not to take advantage of any means to free himself from the restraint under which he was held. He had no opportunity, however, of communicating farther with his friend; for the next moment Sir John Grey returned, followed by several men-at-arms and archers, with a slight, but long-armed man in their hands, habited in a suit of demi-armour, such as was worn by the inferior soldiery, but with a vizored casque, which concealed his face.
"Take off his bacinet," said Sir John Grey; and the helmet being removed, displayed to the eyes of Richard of Woodville the countenance of his former servant Dyram. The man gazed sullenly upon the ground; and Sir John Grey, after eyeing him for a moment, seated himself by Woodville, saying, "I have seen this man before, methinks."
"And so have I, too often," rejoined the young knight; "he was once a servant of mine, and shamefully betrayed his trust. Keep him safe, Sir John, I beseech you; for on him may greatly depend my exculpation with the King."
The man turned round suddenly towards him, and exclaimed, "Ay, and so it does. On me, and me alone, depends your exculpation. Your fate is in my hands."
"Less than you think, perchance, knave!" answered Sir John Grey; "for I hold here strange lights to clear up some dark mysteries. Yet speak, if you be so inclined; you may merit mercy by a frank avowal."
"Send these men hence," said Dyram, looking to the soldiers; "I will say nought before them."
"Go, Edmond," replied the elder knight, speaking to the chief of those who had brought the prisoner in; "yet, first tell me where you found him, and how?"
"Guided by Jim of Retford," said the soldier, "we caught him about a mile on this side of a place called Acheux, I think, some twenty miles hence or more. We found that letter upon him, noble sir, and that," he continued, laying down on the table two pieces of paper. "We might not have searched him, indeed, but he tried to eat that last one. You may see the marks of his teeth in it; and Jim of Retford forced his mouth open with his anelace to take it out. He says 'tis treason; but I know not, for I am no clerk."
Sir John Grey held the paper to the light and read. "Treason it certainly is," he said, when he had done. "One fourth of the booty secured to Edward Dyram, if the scheme succeeds!--Ay, who are these?--Isambert of Agincourt, Robinet de Bournonville, and S. R.? Who may he be, fellow?"
But Dyram was silent; and Sir Harry Dacre cried eagerly, "Let me see it, sir; let me see it!--Ay, I know it well.--Woodville your suspicions are true."
"Go, Edmond, and guard the passage," said Sir John Grey; "I will call when you are wanted.--Now, sir, will you speak?"
"Ay," answered Dyram, as he saw the man depart, and the door close; "I will, sir knight. First, I will speak to you, Richard of Woodville, and will tell you that I have the power to sweep away every cloud that has fallen upon you, or to make them darker still.--I know all: you need tell me nothing;--how you refused to serve your own monarch, they say; how you wrote to aid in bribing Sir Thomas Grey; how you have followed the English camp like a raven smelling the carrion of war--all, all--I know all!"
"Then clear up all!" answered Woodville; "and you shall have pardon."
"Pardon!" cried Dyram, with a mocking laugh; and then suddenly turning to Sir Harry Dacre, he went on. "Next, to you I will speak, sir doleful knight, and tell you, that from your fair fame, too, I can clear away the stain that hangs upon it--black and indelible as you think it. I can take out the mark of Cain, and give you back to peace and happiness."
Sir Harry Dacre gazed upon him for a moment in stern silence, and then replied, "I doubt it."
"Doubt not," replied Ned Dyram. "I can do it, I will; but upon my own conditions."
"What may they be?" asked Sir John Grey. "If they be reasonable, such information as you may proffer may be worth its price. But, remember, before you speak, that your neck is in a halter, and that this paper conveys you to the provost, and the provost to the next tree, if your demands be insolent."
"I am not sure of that," replied Ned Dyram, boldly. "Sir John Grey is not King in the camp. What say you, Sir Richard of Woodville, will you grant my conditions, provided that I save you from your peril, and give you the means of proving your innocence within an hour?"
"I must hear them first, knave," replied the young knight; "I will bind myself to nothing, till they are spoken."
"Oh, they are easily said," answered Ned Dyram. "First, I will have twenty miles free space between me and the camp--So much for security. Then I will have your knightly word, that a fair maiden whom you know, named Ella Brune, shall be mine."
"Where is she?" demanded Richard of Woodville. "I know not where she is; I have not seen her for months, nay years."
"Oh, she is not far off when Richard of Woodville is here," said the man, with a sneer. "I know all about it;--ay, Sir John Grey, the smooth-faced clerk, the corrupter of the men of Montl'herry. Can you not produce her?"
"Perhaps I can ere long," replied Sir John Grey. "But what if I do?"
"Why, then," answered Dyram, in the same saucy tone, "before I speak a word, I will have her promise to be mine. She will soon give it, when she knows that on it hangs Richard of Woodville's life. She has taught me herself, how to wring her hard heart."
"She shall give no such promise for me," replied Woodville, sternly. "I tell thee, pitiful scoundrel, that I would rather, with my bosom free of aught like guilt, lay my head upon the block, than force a grateful and high-hearted girl to wed herself to such a vile slave as thou art. If your insinuations should be true, and she has done for me all that you say, full well and generously has she repaid the little I ever did to serve her. She shall do no more, and least of all make her own misery to save my life."
"Then die, sir knight," rejoined Ned Dyram; "for you will find, with all your wit, you cannot struggle through the toils in which you are caught."
"It may be so," said Sir John Grey; "but by my life, bold villain, you shall die too."
"Perhaps so," answered Dyram, with sneering indifference; "but I can die in silence like a wolf."
"As you have lived," added Richard of Woodville; "so be it."
"Stay," said Sir Harry Dacre; "are these the only conditions you have to propose? Will nought else serve your purpose as well? Gold as much as you will."
"Nought, nought," replied Dyram. "You know the terms, and can take or reject them as you think fit. If you like them well, sir knight, and would have your innocence of the crime laid to you proved beyond all doubt--if you would save your friend too, you have nought to do but seek out this fair maiden. She is not far, I am right sure--and if you but bring her in your hand to me, I will condescend to accept her as my wife, and set you free of all calumny. You struck me once, Richard of Woodville. You cannot expect that I should forget that bitter jest, without a bitter atonement."
"Send him away, Sir John, I do beseech you," cried Woodville, warmly. "My temper will not long hold out; and I shall strike him again."
"Ho, without there!" cried Sir John Grey. "Take this man away, Edmond, and put gyves upon him. Have him watched night and day; for I now know who he is; and a more dangerous knave there does not live. He will escape if Satan's own cunning can effect it."
"Well, you know the terms," said Ned Dyram, turning his head as two of the soldiers drew him away by the arms. "Think better of it, noble knights. Ha, ha, ha! What a story to tell, that the fair fame of Sir Harry Dacre, and the life of Sir Richard of Woodville, both mighty men of war, should depend upon one word of poor Ned Dyram!" and with this scoff he was led away.
Dacre paused in silence, leaning his brow thoughtfully upon his hand; and Richard of Woodville for several moments conversed with Sir John Grey in a low tone.
"Ay, you may well think it strange, Richard," said the elder knight aloud, "that I, who at one time was taught to fancy this girl your paramour, should suddenly place such trust in her, as to let her follow her will in all things, and put means at her disposal to effect whatever she thought fit. But do you see that ring?" and he pointed to a circle of gold set with a large sapphire on his finger; "it is a record, Richard, of a quality, which in her race, though it be a humble one, is hereditary. I mean gratitude. I once rescued from injury the wife of a good soldier, named Brune, the son of one of Northumberland's minstrels. 'Twas but a trifling service which any knight would have rendered to a woman in distress; but that good man, her husband, in gratitude for this simple act, sacrificed his own life to save mine. It was on Shrewsbury field twelve long years ago; and when I left him with the enemy on every side, I gave him that ring, in the hope that he might still escape; but he was already sorely wounded in defending me; and ere he died he sent it as a last gift to his daughter. When I saw it by mere accident, and heard that daughter tell her feelings towards you, I recognised the spirit of her race; and had it cost me half the lands I had just recovered, she should not have wanted means to carry out her plan for serving you. What now?" he continued, turning to one of his attendants, who entered.
"The King, sir knight, desires your presence instantly, to consult with Sir Thomas of Erpingham for the ordering of tomorrow's battle."
"I come," replied Sir John Grey; and then turning to Richard of Woodville, he added, "This is fortunate; perchance what I have to tell him this night, may make him somewhat soften the strictness of his orders." Thus speaking, he withdrew, leaving Richard of Woodville alone with Sir Harry Dacre.
We must follow, for a short space, the steps of Sir John Grey, who hurried after the messenger, to the quarters of the King, which lay at about half a mile's distance from his own. As I have shown, he intended to speak with the monarch upon the intelligence regarding the young knight, which he had received that night; but an opportunity for so doing was not so easily found as he had expected.
The moon was shining bright and unclouded; not a vapour was in the sky; and, as he approached the guards, which were stationed round Henry's temporary residence, he could hear the sound of voices, and see distinctly a small party walking slowly up the road. One was half a step in advance of the rest; and there was something in the air and tread which told the knight at once that there was the King. Hurrying after, he soon overtook the group, and joined in their conversation in a low voice: but far more weighty thoughts than the fate of any individual, now occupied all. Their speech was of the morrow's battle, their minds fixed upon that which was to decide the destiny of thrones and empires,--which was to deal life and death to thousands; and Richard of Woodville seemed forgotten by all but Sir John Grey himself.
The King, too, walked on before in silence, with his eyes bent upon the ground, and his look grave and thoughtful; and it was not till, passing out of the village, he came upon the brow of a small acclivity, from which the whole of the enemy's line of watch-fires could be descried, that he paused or spoke. The moment that he stopped, the distinguished soldiers who followed him gathered round; and, turning towards them with a countenance now all smiles, the monarch said, "Somewhere near this spot must be the place--I marked it this afternoon. Ha! Sir John Grey, I hardly thought you would have time to come."
"A little more in advance, Sire," replied Sir Thomas of Erpingham, answering the former part of the King's speech. "If you take your stand here, the Frenchmen will have space to spread out their men beyond the edge of the two woods; but, if you plant your van within a half-bowshot of the edge of those trees, they must coop themselves up in the narrow space, where their numbers will be little good."
"You are right, renowned knight," said the King, laying his hand familiarly upon Erpingham's shoulder. "I did not mean just here. The standard shall be pitched where yon low tree rises; the vanward a hundred paces farther down, the rearward where we now stand."
"Does your Grace mark that meadow there, upon the right?" asked Sir John Grey; "close upon the edge of the wood."
"I do, good friend," answered Henry; "and will use it as I know you would have. But, go down first, and see how it is defended; for we must not expose our foot-men to the French horse."
Sir John Grey and the Earl of Suffolk hurried on, while Henry examined the rest of the field; but they soon returned with information that the meadow was defended by a deep and broad ditch, impassable for heavy horses; and Henry replied, "Well, then, we will secure it for ourselves by our good bowmen. Though we be so few, we can spare two hundred archers to gall the Frenchmen's flank as they come up."
"Ay! would to Heaven," cried one of the gentlemen present, "that all the brave men, who are now idle in England, could know that such a field as this lies before their King, and they had time to join us."
"Ha! what is that?" cried Henry. "No, by my life! I would not have one man more. If we lose the day, which God forbid we should, we are too many already; and if we win this battle, as I trust in Heaven we shall, I would not share the glory of the field with any more than needful. Come, my good lords and noble knights, let us go on and view the ground farther, and when all is decided we will place guards and light fires to insure that the enemy be not beforehand with us." Thus saying, he walked on, conversing principally with Sir Thomas of Erpingham upon the array of his men; while the other gentlemen followed talking together, or listening to the consultation between the King and his old and experienced knight. As they went on, various broken sentences were thus overheard--as, "Ay, that copse of brushwood will guard our left right well--and the hedges and ditches on the right, will secure us from the charge of men-at-arms. Their bowmen we need not fear, my Liege."
"I have bethought me, my old friend, of a defence, too, for our archers in the front. We have all heard how at Bannockburn, in the time of good King Edward, pitfalls were dug to break the charging horse. We have no time for that; but I think, if we should plant before our archers, long stakes pointed with iron, a little leaning forward towards the foe, the British bows would be secure against the chivalry of France; or, if they were assailed and the enemy did break through, 'twould be in wild disorder and rash disarray, as was the case at Cressy."
"A marvellous good thought, my Liege; but every battle has a change. Those who were once attacked, become the attackers, and should such be our case, how will you clear the way for our own men from the stakes that were planted against the enemy?"
"That must be provided against, Sir Thomas. Each man must pull up the stake near him."
"Nay, my Liege," said Sir John Grey, joining in. "Let a hundred billmen be ranged with the second line of archers; and, at a word given, pass through and root up the stakes."
"Right, right, Sir John," answered the King. "Then the fury of our charge, when charge we may, will not be checked by our own defences. Our van must be all archers, with the exception of the brown bills--and I think to give the command----"
"I do beseech you, my lord the King," said the Duke of York, advancing from behind, "to let me have that post, and lead the van of your battle. Words have been spoken, and rumours have been spread, which make me eager for a place of danger. You must not refuse me, royal prince."
"Nor will I, cousin," answered Henry. "On your honour and good faith, I have as much reliance, as on your skill and courage, which no man dares to doubt. Are you not a Plantagenet?"
The Duke caught his hand and kissed it; and if he had taken any share, as some suspected, in the conspiracy of Southampton, he expiated his fault on the succeeding day, by glorious actions and a hero's death.
"Now," said the King, after some further examination of the field, "you understand our disposition, noble knights; and to you I entrust it to secure the ground during the night, and to make the arrangements for to-morrow. Cousin of York, you lead the van. I myself, with my young brother, Humphrey of Gloucester, will command the main battle. Oxford and Suffolk, you and the Lord Marshal shall give us counsel. My uncle of Exeter shall lead our rearward line, and this good knight of Erpingham shall be our marshal of the field. Let all men in the centre fight on foot: and let the cavalry be ranged on either wing to improve the victory I hope to win. When all is ready, back to your beds and sleep, first praying God for good success to-morrow. Then, in the morning early, feed your men. Let them consume whatever meat is left; for if we gain the day, they shall find plenty on before; and if we lose it, few methinks will want provisions."
Thus saying, the King turned and walked back towards the village; and Sir John Grey choosing that moment, advanced and addressed him in a low tone in regard to Richard of Woodville. Henry soon stopped him, however--"We cannot speak on that to-night, my noble friend," he said. "It grieves me much, I own, to debar a gallant gentleman from sharing in a field like this. I know that it will grieve him more than death; but yet--Nay, no more. We will not speak of this. Set watch upon him;--but not too strict. You understand me; and you who taught my infant hands first to draw a bow, shall fight by my side to-morrow. Now, good night--I will tell you my belief; it is, that this youth is guiltless. I do not often rashly judge men's characters; and I formed my estimate of his, long, long ago. Farewell, and God shield us all to-morrow."
Sir John Grey hurried home, and found, that, during his long absence, all in the house where he was quartered, except one or two of his own personal attendants and the necessary guard, had retired to rest. Ere he sought his pillow also, however, he sat down and wrote some hurried lines, which he signed and sealed; and then, with a silent step seeking the chamber where Richard of Woodville slept, with two or three yeomen across the door, he went in, and gazed for a moment at the young knight, as he lay upon his little pallet, with his arm under his head, and a well-pleased smile upon his slumbering face.
"That is not the sleep of guilt," said Sir John in a low murmur to himself. "There, that gives him my Mary, if I fall to-morrow;" and thus saying, he laid the paper he had written upon Woodville's bosom, and retired to his own chamber.
The morning of the twenty-fifth of October, St. Crispin's day, dawned bright, but not altogether clear. There was a slight hazy mist in the air, sufficient to soften the distant objects; but neither to prevent the eye from ranging to a great distance, nor the sun, which was shining warm above, from pouring his beams through the air, and tinging the whole vapour with a golden hue. Early in the morning, both armies were on foot; but more bustle and eagerness were observable in the French camp, than amongst the English, who showed a calmer and less excited spirit, weighing well the hazards of the day, and though little doubting of victory, still feeling that no light and joyful task lay before them.
The French, however, were all bustle and activity. Men-at-arms were seen hurrying from place to place, gathering around their innumerable banners, ranging themselves under their various leaders, or kneeling and taking vows to do this or that, of which inexorable fate forbade, in most cases, the accomplishment. Nothing was heard on any side but accents of triumph and satisfaction, prognostications of a speedy and almost bloodless victory over an enemy, to whom they were superior by at least six times the number of the whole English host,--and bloody resolutions of avenging the invasion of France, and the capture of Harfleur, by putting to death all prisoners except the King and other princes, from whom large ransoms might be expected; for a vain people is almost always a sanguinary one. A proud nation can better afford to forgive. Nothing was heard, I have said, but such foolish boastings, and idle resolutions: but I ought to have excepted some less jocund observations, which were made here and there in a low tone, amongst the older, but not wiser of the French nobility, prompted by the superstitious spirit of the times, which was apt to draw auguries from very trifling indications.
"Heard you how the music of these islanders made the whole air ring throughout the night?" said one.
"And ours was quite silent," said another.
"We have no instruments," rejoined a third. "This King of theirs is fond of such toys, and plays himself like a minstrel, I am told: but I remarked a thing which is more serious; their horses neighed all night, as if eager for a course, and ours uttered not a sound."
"That looks bad, indeed," observed one of the others.
"Perhaps their horses, as well as their men, are frightened," answered another.
"I have seen no sign of fear," replied one of the first speakers, with a shake of the head.
"Why the rumour goes," said the first, "that Henry of England sent on Wednesday, to announce that he would give up Harfleur, and pay for all the damage he has done, if we would but grant him a free passage to his town of Calais."
"It is false," replied the first speaker. "I asked the Constable last night myself, and he said that there is not a word of truth in the whole tale, and that Henry will fight like a boar at bay: so every Frenchman must do his devoir; for if, with six times his numbers, we let the Englishmen win the day, it must be by our folly or our own fault."
As he spoke, the Constable D'Albret, followed by a gallant train of knights and noblemen, rode past on a splendid charger, horse and man completely armed; and, turning his head as he passed each group, he snouted, "To the standard, to the standard, gentlemen! Under your banners, men of France! You will want shade, for the sun shines, and we have a hot day before us."
Thus saying, he rode on, and the French lines were speedily formed in three divisions, like the English. The first, or vanguard, comprised eight thousand men-at-arms, all knights or squires, four thousand archers, and fifteen hundred crossbowmen, and was led by the Constable, the Dukes of Orleans and Bourbon, with some twenty other high lords of France, while upon either wing appeared a large body of chosen cavalry. The whole line was glittering with gilded armour, and gay with a thousand banners of embroidered arms; and, as the sun shone upon it, no courtly pageant was ever more bright and beautiful to see.
The main body consisted of a still larger force, under the Dukes of Bar and Alençon, with six counts, each a great vassal of the crown of France. The rear guard was more numerous still; but in it were comprised the light armed and irregular troops, and a mixed multitude upon whom little dependence could be placed.
When all were arranged in order, on the side of the hill, the Constable addressed the troops, in words of high and manly courage, tinged perhaps with a little bombast; and when he had done, the whole of that vast force remained gazing towards the opposite slope, and expecting every moment to see the English army appear, and endeavour to force its way onward towards Calais. As yet, but a few scattered bodies of the invaders were apparent upon the ground, and some time passed, ere the heads of the different corps were descried issuing forth in perfect order to the sound of martial music, and taking up their position on the field, marked out by Henry during the night before. Their appearance, as compared with that of the French host, was poor and insignificant in the extreme. Traces of travel and of strife were evident in their arms and in their banners; and their numbers seemed but as a handful opposed to the long line which covered the hill before them. Yet there was something in the firm array, the calm and measured step, the triumphant sound of their trumpets and their clarions, the regular lines of their archers and of their cavalry, the want of all haste, confusion, or agitation, apparent through the whole of that small host, which was not without its effect upon their enemies, who began to feel that there would be indeed a battle, fierce, bloody, and determined, before the day, so fondly counted theirs, was really won.
Prompt and well-disciplined, with their bows on their shoulders, their quivers and their swords at their sides, and their heavy axes in their hands, the English archers at once took up the position assigned to them, with as much precision as if at some pageant or muster. Each instantly planted in the earth a heavy iron-shod stake, which he carried in his left hand, and drove it in with blows from the back of his axe; and then each strung his bow, and drew an arrow from the quiver. Behind, at a short distance, came the battle of the King, consisting of heavy armed infantry, principally billmen, with a strong force of cavalry on either hand. The rearward, under the Duke of Exeter, appeared shortly after on the hill above; and each of the two last divisions occupied its appointed ground with the same regularity and tranquil order which had been displayed by the van.
The preparations which they perceived, the pitching of the stakes, the marshalling of the English forces, and the position which they had taken up, showed the French commanders that the King of England was determined his battle should be a defensive one; and the appearance of some bodies of the enemy in the neighbourhood of the village of Agincourt, with the burning of a mill and house upon the same side, led them to believe that some stratagem was meditated, which must be met by prompt action with the principal corps of Henry's army.
That there were difficulties in attacking a veteran force in such a position, the Constable D'Albret clearly saw, but he was naturally of a bold and rash disposition; his enemies of the Burgundian party had more than once accused him of his irresolution and incapacity; and he resolved that no obstacle should daunt, or induce him to avoid a battle, with such an overpowering force at his command. He gave the order then to move forward at a slow pace, and probably did not perceive the full perils of his undertaking, till his troops had advanced too far, between the two woods, to retreat with either honour or safety. When he discovered this, it would seem an order was given to halt, and for some minutes the two armies paused, observing each other, the English determined not to quit their ground, the French hesitating to attack.
A solemn silence pervaded the whole field; but then Henry himself appeared, armed from head to foot in gilded armour, a royal crown encircling his helmet, covered with precious stones, and his beaver up, displaying his countenance to his own troops. Mounted on a magnificent white horse, he rode along the line of archers in the van, within half a bow shot of the enemy, exhorting the brave yeomen, in loud tones, and with a cheerful face, to do their duty to their country and their King. Every motive was held out that could induce his soldiery to do gallant deeds; and he ended by exclaiming, "For my part, I swear that England shall never pay ransom for my person, nor France triumph over me in life; for this day shall either be famous for my death, or in it I will win honour and obtain renown."
Along the second and third line he likewise rode, followed close by Sir Thomas of Erpingham, with his bald head bare, and the white hair upon his temples streaming in the wind; and to each division the King addressed nearly the same words. The only answer that was made by the soldiers was, "On, on! let us forward!" and the only communication which took place between the King and his marshal of the host occurred when at length Henry resumed his position in the centre of the main battle.
"They are near enough, my Liege," said the old knight. "Is your Grace ready?"
"Quite," replied Henry. "Have you left a guard over the baggage?"
"As many as could be spared, Sire," replied the Marshal. "Shall we begin?"
Henry bowed his head; and the old knight, setting spurs to his horse, galloped along the face of the three lines, waving his truncheon in his hand, and exclaiming, "Ready, ready! Now, men of England, now!"
Then, in the very centre of the van, he stopped by the side of the Duke of York, dismounted from his horse, put on his casque, which a page held ready; and then, hurling his leading staff high into the air, as he glanced over the archers with a look of fire untamed by age, he cried aloud, "Now strike!"
Each English yeoman suddenly bent down upon his knee and kissed the ground. Then starting up, they gave one loud, universal cheer, at which, to use the terms of the French historian, "the Frenchmen were greatly astounded." Each archer took a step forward, drew his bow-string to his ear; and, as the van of the enemy began to move on, a cloud of arrows fell amongst them, not only from the front, but from the meadow on their flank, piercing through armour, driving the horses mad with pain, and spreading confusion and disarray amidst the immense multitude which, crowded into that narrow field, could only advance in lines thirty deep.
"Forward, forward!" shouted the French knights.
"On, for your country and your King!" cried the Constable D'Albret; but his archers and cross-bowmen would not move; and, plunging their horses through them, the French men-at-arms spurred on in terrible disarray, while still amongst them fell that terrible shower of arrows, seeming to seek out with unerring aim every weak point of their armour, piercing their visors, entering between the gorget and the breast-plate, transfixing the hand to the lance. Of eight hundred chosen men-at-arms, if we may believe the accounts of the French themselves, not more than a hundred and forty could reach the stakes by which the archers stood. This new impediment produced still more confusion: many of the heavy-armed horses of the French goring themselves upon the iron pikes, and one of the leaders, who cast himself gallantly forward before the rest, being instantly pulled from his horse, and slain by the axes of the English infantry; whilst still against those that were following were aimed the deadly shafts, till, seized with terror, they drew the bridle and fled, tearing their way through the mingled mass behind them, and increasing the consternation and confusion which already reigned.
At the same moment, the arrows of the English archers being expended, the stakes were drawn up; and encouraged by the evident discomfiture of the French van, the first line of the English host rushed upon the struggling crowd before them, sword in hand, rendering the disarray and panic irremediable, slaughtering immense numbers with their swords and axes, and changing terror into precipitate flight.
Up to this period, Henry, surrounded by some of his principal knights, stood immoveable upon the slope of the hill, but seeing his archers engaged hand to hand with the enemy, he pointed out with his truncheon a knight in black armour with lines of gold, about a hundred yards distant upon his left, saying, "Tell Sir Henry Dacre to move down with his company to support the van. The enemy may rally yet." A squire galloped off to bear the order; and instantly the band to which he addressed himself swept down in firm array, while the King, with the whole of the main body, moved slowly on to insure the victory.
No further resistance, indeed, was made by the advanced guard of the French. Happy was the man who could save himself by flight; the archers and the cross-bowmen, separating from each other, plunged into the wood; many of the men-at-arms dismounting from their horses, and casting off their heavy armour, followed their example; and others, flying in small parties, rallied upon the immense body led by the Dukes of Bar and Alençon, which was now advancing, in the hope of retrieving the day. It was known that the Duke of Alençon had sworn to take the King of England, alive or dead, and the contest now became more fierce and more regular. Pouring on in thunder upon the English line, the French men-at-arms seemed to bear all before them; but though shaken by the charge, the English cavalry gallantly maintained their ground; and, as calm as if sitting at the council-table, the English King, from the midst of the battle, even where it was fiercest around him, issued his commands, rallied his men, and marked with an approving eye, and often with words of high commendation, the conduct of the foremost in the fight.
"Wheel your men, Sir John Grey," he cried, "and take that party in the green upon the flank. Bravely done, upon my life; Sir Harry Dacre seems resolved to outdo us all. Give him support, my Lord of Hungerford. See you not that he is surrounded by a score of lances! By the holy rood, he has cleared the way. Aid him, aid him, and they are routed there!"
"That is not Sir Harry Dacre, my Lord the King," said a gentleman near. "He is in plain steel armour. I spoke with him but a minute ago."
"On, on," cried Henry, little heeding him. "Restore the array on the right, Sir Hugh Basset. They have bent back a little. On your guard, on your guard, knights and gentlemen! Down with your lances. Here they come!" and at the same moment, a large body of French, at the full gallop, dashed towards the spot where the King stood. In an instant, the Duke of Gloucester, but a few yards from the monarch, was encountered by a knight of great height and strength, and cast headlong to the ground. Henry spurred up to his brother's defence, and covering him with his shield, rained a thousand blows, with his large, heavy sword, upon the armour of his adversary, while two of the Duke's squires drew the young Prince from beneath his horse.
"Beware, beware, my Lord the King!" cried a voice upon his left; and turning round, Henry beheld the knight in the black armour, pointing with his mace to the right, where the Duke of Alençon, some fifty yards before a large party of the French chivalry, was galloping forward, with his battle-axe in his hand, direct towards the King. Henry turned to meet him; but that movement had nearly proved fatal to the English monarch; for as he wheeled his horse, he saw the black knight cover him with his shield, receive upon it a tremendous blow from the gigantic adversary who had overthrown the Duke of Gloucester, and, swinging high his mace, strike the other on the crest a stroke that brought his head to his horse's neck. A second dashed him to the ground; but Henry had time to remark no more, for Alençon was already upon him, and he had now to fight hand to hand for life. Few men, however, could stand before the English monarch's arm; and in an instant, the Duke was rolling in the dust. A dozen of the foot soldiers were upon him at once.
"Spare him, spare him!" cried the King; but, ere his voice could be heard, a dagger was in the unhappy prince's throat.
When Henry looked round, the main body of the French were flying in confusion, the rear guard had already fled; and all that remained upon the field of Agincourt of the magnificent host of France, were the prisoners, the dying, or the dead, except where here and there, scattered over the ground, were seen small parties of twenty or thirty, separated from the rest, and fighting with the courage of despair.
"Let all men be taken to mercy," cried the King, "who are willing to surrender. Quick, send messengers, uncle of Exeter, to command them to give quarter."
"My Lord the King! my Lord the King!" cried the voice of a man, galloping up in haste, "the rear-guard of the enemy have rallied, and are already in your camp, pillaging and slaying wherever they come."
"Ha, then, we will fight them too," cried the monarch. "Keep the field, my Lord Duke, and prevent those fugitives from collecting together;" and gathering a small force of cavalry, Henry himself rode back at speed towards the village of Maisoncelles. But when he reached the part of the camp where his baggage had been left, the King found that the report of the French rear-guard having rallied, was false. Tents had been overthrown, it is true, houses had been burnt, wagons had been pillaged; and the work of plunder was still going on. But the only force in presence consisted of some six or seven hundred armed peasantry, headed by about six score men-at-arms, with three or four gentlemen apparently of knightly rank. The cavaliers, who had dismounted, instantly sprang on their horses and fled when the English horse appeared; and Henry, fearing to endanger his victory, shouted loudly not to pursue.
"I beseech you, my Liege, let me bring you back one of them," cried the knight in the black armour, who was on the King's left; and ere Henry could reply, digging his spurs deep into his horse's sides, he was half a bow-shot away after the fugitives. They fled fast, but not so fast as he followed.
"We must give him aid, or he is lost," cried the King, riding after; but ere he could come up, the knight had nearly reached the three hindmost horsemen, shouting loudly to them to turn and fight.
Two did so; but hand to hand he met them both, stunned the horse of one by a blow upon the head, and then turning upon the other, exclaimed, "We have met at length, craven and scoundrel! We have met at length!"
The other replied not, but by a thrust of his sword at the good knight's visor. It was well aimed; and the point passed through the bars and entered his cheek. At the same moment, however, the black knight's heavy mace descended upon his foeman's head, the crest was crushed, the thick steel gave way, and down his enemy rolled--hung for a moment in the stirrup--and then fell headlong on the ground.
Light as air, the victor sprang from his saddle, and setting his foot upon his adversary's neck, gazed fiercely upon him as he lay. There were some few words enamelled above the visor; and crying aloud, "Ave, Maria!" the black knight shook his mace high in the air, then dropped it by the thong without striking, and, unclasping his own helmet, as the King came up, exposed the head of Richard of Woodville. Such was the last deed of the battle of Agincourt.