by Jean Plaidy
Thus it seemed that success was turning to disaster for the army was by this time only half the strength it had been when it set out.
‘We must return to England,’ said Bedford. ‘We must raise more men.’
But Henry shook his head. ‘Return to England with only the capture of Harfleur to our credit! Nay, good brother, that will not do. The people of England have given me their men and their treasure. I will not return without something more than Harfleur to offer them. They would say I was over-timid and no man shall ever have reason to call me that.’
‘Then where next?’
Henry was thoughtful for a while. Then he said: ‘I intend to march through Normandy, Picardy and Artois on my way to Calais. This is my fair land of France and it is fitting that I should see more of it.’
‘My lord,’ cried Bedford aghast. ‘We have lost so many men and many of those who remain have been weakened by illness. You will have to leave a garrison in Harfleur. How many will you take on this march?’
‘There will be some six thousand.’
‘Six thousand, my lord, against the French army!’
‘It may be that we shall not meet the French army.’
‘They will resent the capture of Harfleur. What if they come against us? And what food shall we be able to commandeer during this march of . . . why it must be some hundred and fifty miles.’
‘All you say may well be true, brother, but I shall not return to England without a victory to present to my people and that victory must be as joyful in their eyes as those of Crécy and Poitiers.’
Bedford shook his head. He thought his brother was courting disaster. But there was no gainsaying the orders of the King and the march began.
They went through Fécamp to Argues, Criel, Eu and St Valéry until they reached the Somme. Now the French were on the march.
It was the twenty-fourth of October and the enemy were encamped in the villages of Ruisseauville and Agincourt.
No lodging could be found for Henry and he slept in a hut. In the morning he released the prisoners he had brought with him, exacting a promise from them that if they were caught up in battle they should return and surrender themselves.
‘If I am defeated,’ he said, ‘then you are released. If not, you will return to me.’
He laughed to himself. How many would obey him? He could not say, but he could not afford to have enemies in his camp. Some might have executed them. It was not Henry’s way. He prided himself on his justice. He was hard but not deliberately cruel.
Now there could be no putting off the battle. The enemies were face to face and the next day must see the start of hostilities.
There was great confidence in the French camp because they so greatly outnumbered the English. The French knew what had happened at Harfleur. The English had won that victory but at what cost. Their army, so the French understood, was decimated by dysentery.
It rained heavily during that long night and as they listened to it rattling on their tents the French were confidently gambling on how many prisoners they would take in the battle and boasting that they would go for those who would bring in the highest ransoms. They were certain of victory. It was not possible, they reasoned, for such a decimated band of men, exhausted by a long march and sickness, to stand up against them. Harry of England was a braggart who boasted of his claim to the throne of France. It would be their pleasure on the following day to teach him a lesson.
Henry, strangely enough, was filled with a quiet confidence. He forbade any to speak of the smallness of his army. The men must not be reminded of it, he told his generals. He must imbue them with this sense of certain victory which he himself felt.
In the quiet of the night he walked about the camp. He talked with his men, without proclaiming his identity. But they knew him; and with the rain glistening on his face and soaking his cloak they were aware of some divine power within him and they forgot their fears and knew – as well as he did – that he could not fail.
The King heard mass at dawn. Then he was dressed in his cote d’armes on which were the arms of both France and England. On his basinet he wore his crown that all might know who he was when he led his men in battle. He mounted his small grey horse and summoned his men from their quarters and when they were drawn up he addressed them. He told them that their cause was just, that they would succeed with God’s help and God would not deny that help to those whose cause was right. They were going to show the French that no army in the world could stand up against English bowmen. They were going in to win. This spot was called Agincourt and in years to come its name should be celebrated, because it was one which should stand beside that of Crécy and Poitiers.
Such was his conviction and so did he glow with this shining confidence which seemed imbued with a touch of divinity that his men believed him. They ceased to think of the opposing number of Frenchmen who must be fresher and doubtless better equipped than they were. They only knew that they would follow Harry of England to victory.
Henry himself led the main host of the army; the Duke of York was in the vanguard and the rear was commanded by Lord Camoys. Each of the archers carried a billhook, a hatchet and a hammer and a stake sharp at both ends in order to defend himself against a cavalry charge.
The French stood firm as the English advanced, and from the archers came a shower of arrows which wrought fearful havoc among the French forces. The French cavalry attempted to attack but they could not stand up against the streams of arrows and it was brought home to them that the reputation of the invincibility of English archers was well founded. The horses were unable to advance because as they approached the English held the pointed stakes before them and the French horses, maddened by the wounds they had received from the arrows, ran amok and it was quite impossible for their riders to control them.
The battle waged for three hours. A wild fury had seized the English. The manner in which the archers had repulsed the cavalry even after they had shot all their arrows seemed a miracle. They were certain that God was on their side and they knew that with His help they could not fail.
It was victory for the English archers. As at Crécy and Poitiers they were invincible.
The French losses were enormous, those of the English minimal. This resounding and miraculous success was due to the archers, but it owed a great deal to the military genius of the King.
He it was who had chosen that the battle should be fought on that spot where the French could not use all their forces but were obliged to attack in one space which considerably reduced the advantage of numbers.
So the field was won, and men were saying that never had there been a battle so glorious, never one won against such desperate odds.
The French were defeated, the English gloriously victorious and the name of Harry of England would live for ever as the greatest warrior of them all.
Coeur de Lion, two great Edwards, the Black Prince himself – Henry towered above them.
So it was back to Calais and across to England.
There his loyal subjects awaited their hero. All over the country there was rejoicing. Bonfires were lighted. Pageants were enacted; and when the King arrived in his capital city he was going to be given such a welcome as no king had ever enjoyed before.
Profligate Prince Hal had become great Harry of England.
Chapter XII
DEATH AT LOLLARDS’ GALLOWS
There was one, however, who could not rejoice wholeheartedly in the great victory, for she greatly feared what the consequences might be.
Ever since Henry had visited Joanna and implied that he expected her to influence her son to fight for the English, she had been very uneasy.
Until this time she had been content with her life in England. At first she had been very happy with Henry but when that fearful disease had grown worse and he had been so horribly disfigured her feelings towards him had begun to change. When he had died it had been a kind of release and had enabled her to settle down to a new life.
And now Agincourt! An unprecedented and unexpected victory for Henry.
She knew that her eldest son, the Duke of Brittany, had remained uncomfortably neutral. It was the only action he could have taken, for since his wife was the daughter of the King of France his allegiance must lie with that King. It was different with Arthur. He had been created Earl of Richmond by Joanna’s husband and owed his allegiance to England. Yet he had fought with France.
That would have been a wise action . . . if the French had won; and everyone had expected the French to win.
So at Havering Joanna waited in trepidation for the outcome. That Henry’s attitude towards her would change, she felt certain. He would blame her for not using enough force in persuading her sons. But what could she do? It was years since she had seen them and even if she had, she would never have been able to influence them to that extent. To have supported the English would have seemed to them like suicide. It was all very well to be wise after the event. She was in a state of great nervousness and she sent for two men whom she kept in her household to advise her and predict the future. Petronel Brocart had come to England with her and she had found Roger Colles in Salisbury. She regarded them as her two wise men; they foretold the future and read the stars and before taking any action she always consulted them.
The household was considerably in awe of them; they lived in complete comfort for there was no one who would dare offend them for fear of bringing down their wrath and being ill wished.
She sent for them and told them that she wanted to consult them; she was fearful of the future, she told them. They had not foreseen the outcome of the battle of Agincourt.
Petronel Brocart replied that he had foreseen it but had not trusted what he saw and put it down to being a dream and not true foresight. The odds were so overwhelmingly against the English that it could only have been a last minute miracle, decided on in one moment by the powers either of good or evil – it remained to be seen which.
Joanna accepted the explanation and told them that she felt herself to be . . . if not in danger, in an uneasy position because of her family in France.
Brocart made sure that he was kept up to date with the latest events which often meant he was able to prophesy a certainty; he kept messengers, whom he paid handsomely, and their duty was to give him the latest information as to what was happening at the Court of Brittany.
Therefore he had news for the Queen; and it was not pleasant news.
‘It does not surprise me,’ said Brocart, ‘that you feel this lack of ease. There is ill news coming to you, my lady.’
Joanna glanced pleadingly from Colles to Brocart.
‘Pray tell me the worst. My son . . .’
‘The Duke is well,’ replied Colles. ‘He did not take part in the fighting but wisely remained neutral.’
‘Your daughter’s husband, the Duc d’Alençon, has been killed,’ said Brocart.
Joanna put her hand to her fast-beating heart; she could tell from the expression of these two men that there was more to come.
‘Your brother Charles of Navarre was wounded in the battle.’
‘He has since died of his wounds,’ added Colles.
‘And my son . . . Arthur?’ asked Joanna faintly.
‘He is Henry’s prisoner.’
‘Oh my God, what will become of him?’
‘He will remain in England at the King’s pleasure, my lady.’
‘And shall I see my son?’
‘Ere long, my lady.’
‘It grieves us to give you such news, dear lady.’
‘I know it,’ replied Joanna, ‘but I must also know the truth. Do not hesitate. Is there anything more I should know?’
‘We have told you all, my lady.’
Joanna wanted nothing so much as to shut herself away with her grief.
She had pleaded with the King. He must allow her to see her son. She knew that he had broken the allegiance which as Earl of Richmond he owed to England. But she was his mother and she had not seen him for eleven years when as a boy he had come to England. Perhaps she had been wrong to remind the King of that occasion for it was when he had received the investiture of Earl of Richmond.
The King replied that her son was a traitor. He had been found with England’s enemy and had been taken in battle. He could not expect to be received in honour in England; he was a prisoner, a danger to England, and Henry could see no reason why he should be treated otherwise even though his mother had been a Queen of England.
Joanna longed to see him. She greatly feared that he might be sentenced to death. Henry was severe but he was not wantonly cruel. He would understand Arthur’s difficulties living as he was in Brittany at his brother’s Court with his brother’s wife the daughter of the King of France. True, he had sworn allegiance to England, but he was young and Henry would not wish to be too harsh. Moreover Joanna was a clever woman; he had always liked her and did not want to inflict undue suffering upon her. It was unthinkable that he should release Arthur of course, but he saw no reason why there might not be a meeting between mother and son.
Arthur was to come, under guard, to Havering after which he would be taken back to the Tower of London. When she heard that he would soon be with her Joanna was overcome by emotion and she sent for her confessor, a Franciscan friar named John Randolf, and asked him to pray with her that she might prepare herself for the meeting.
‘I must try not to weep,’ she said. ‘Oh, it is a sad state of affairs when children are lost to their mothers at an early age.’
‘Compose yourself, my lady,’ advised John Randolf. ‘Prayer will be a solace to you. I would suggest, Madam, that it is unwise to rely so much on those charlatans, Brocart and Colles. They can bring no good to you.’
‘They foresaw that my son would be a prisoner. They warned me in advance.’
‘It is dabbling in evil powers, my lady, and will do you no good with God and his saints.’
Joanna was silent. She knew that John Randolf disliked the sorcerers, as they did him. They were suspicious of each other and jealous of the influence every one of them held with her.
But this was no time to consider rivalries.
Arthur was coming and she must be prepared for him, so she knelt with Randolf and together they asked for God’s blessing and that the King’s heart might be softened towards Arthur.
He was on his way. Soon he would be with her. She was trembling with excitement.
She said to one of her ladies, ‘Do sit in my chair so that when he comes in he will think you are his mother. I will watch him for a while before I reveal myself.’
‘He will know you for the Queen, my lady, by your very bearing.’
‘Nay,’ said Joanna, ‘we shall do it this way.’
And so she was seated on a footstool at the feet of her lady attendant when her son entered. He was handsome, young, all that she could have wished him to be . . . except that he was a prisoner. The guards were standing at the door to remind her of that sad fact.
He approached her lady-in-waiting and knelt at her feet. Joanna watched sadly.
‘My mother,’ said Arthur, ‘this is a sad meeting. But I rejoice to see you.’
They embraced.
‘I will present you to my ladies,’ said the substitute Queen, but at that moment Joanna could sustain her rôle no longer.
‘My son, my son,’ she cried, ‘do you not know me?’
Arthur looked in astonishment from the lady-in-waiting to the Queen.
‘Yes,’ said Joanna, ‘I am your mother.�
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‘I see it now,’ cried Arthur.
‘I had to wait awhile,’ said Joanna. ‘My heart was too full.’
They embraced warmly, then looked at each other searchingly. ‘You were but a boy when you went away,’ said Joanna.
‘Oh, Mother, so much has happened since then.’
‘I was so proud of you, my Earl of Richmond.’
‘Alas, Mother.’
‘Henry will treat you well. I would I could keep you here with me.’
‘I come as a prisoner, my lady.’
Joanna nodded.
‘Come, tell me of home. Tell me of your brother and your sister . . . She has lost her husband.’
‘Agincourt was disastrous for us.’
‘And such a victory here. They are still having their pageants and their revelries, their thanksgiving services. The bells are ringing all over the country.’
‘One King’s victory must be another’s defeat, Mother.’
‘And you were on the wrong side.’
‘It seemed so impossible that the English could triumph.’
‘Nothing is certain in war,’ said Joanna. ‘Now we must make the best of what is left to us. It will not be long, I feel sure.’
She was right.
That day Arthur was taken back to his prison in the Tower. The brief reunion was over.
The King kept Christmas at Lambeth.
He was restive. He had won a brilliant victory at Agincourt but all it had brought him was Harfleur. He was no nearer to the crown of France than his predecessors had been.
After Agincourt it would have been the utmost folly to have marched to Paris. Wretched and defeated as it was, what was left of the French army could have stopped him. If the French were in a sad state so were the English. Many of his soldiers were suffering from dysentery. They had fought magnificently but they were in no shape to endure another battle for a while. Good general that he was he had seen there was only one thing he could do and that was return home and get together more men and more stores before he began another campaign.
