After a night of heavy rain, the morning of October 25th dawned bright and clear. The French army barred, as has been said, Henry’s road to Calais, but, relying on their vast superiority of force,10 they had not been at the pains to take up what could be called a military position. A huge mass of men occupied the level ground that lies between the villages of Agincourt and Rousseauville. Their extreme right touched the road to Calais, and if Henry was to gain that, he would have to make his way through their ranks. So impossible did this seem, that they took none of the ordinary precautions observed by an army that is going to give battle. The villages of Agincourt and Tramecourt, which were respectively in a slight advance of their right and left wings, were left to be occupied by the English. No attempt was made to take advantage of the woods which flanked their position. To stand still and to let their enemy dash himself to pieces on their ranks was the policy of their generals, if a policy they had. Even to this plan, which indeed might well have been successful, it will be seen that they did not adhere.

The disposition of the French army may be thus described:—D’Albret, Constable of France, with the Dukes of Orleans and Bourbon, commanded the front line, which consisted, it was said, of twenty thousand men. They were on foot, heavily armed with long coats of mail, greaves, and helmets; but on either wing there were posted bodies of cavalry, ready to charge when the occasion offered. Behind this came another line, commanded by the Duke d’AlenÇon; and behind this again a third, which was composed chiefly of cavalry.

The English army consisted of one single line. So narrow was the space of the future battle-field that the English front was equal in extent to the French. Comparatively small, too, as were their numbers, they were sufficient for the practical purpose of giving an adequate solidity to the line. In the first clash of battle, at least, the two would be on equal terms. The small force of men-at-arms, not more than three or four thousand, was posted in the centre. The right and left divisions were mainly composed of archers, some of whom were also interspersed among the men-at-arms. Each archer had a stake shod with iron, which he planted in the ground before him. The men had carried these with them almost from the beginning of their march from Harfleur. They were to act as an extemporised palisade in the case of an attack. Detachments of archers were posted in the villages of Agincourt and Tramecourt, and were ready to harass the enemy should they advance to the attack. A body of cavalry was even pushed forward beyond the French left. The baggage was placed, under the protection of a small guard, behind the village of Maisoncelles.

Henry himself commanded in the centre, a conspicuous object to all eyes. He was not one of the kings who went into a battle disguised. There was doubtless a personal taste for splendour and ornament shown in his dress and accoutrements; but he was also impressed with the belief that a king must be, and show himself to be, the foremost fighter as well as the leader of his army. He wore a surcoat which with its gay blazonry set forth his claim to the double throne, showing as it did the lilies of France and the leopards of England. His helmet was circled with a rich crown of gold. While he was marshalling his lines and encouraging his men to do their best, he rode a small grey horse. This part of his work finished, he dismounted, and took his place on foot in front of his line. The Duke of York commanded the right wing, which was slightly in advance of the line: the left, on the other hand, was slightly withdrawn, and this was in charge of Lord Camoys. Each division had its proper banner; over the head of Henry was displayed the royal standard with the quarterings of France and England.

For some time after daybreak no movement was made on either side till both armies had taken their breakfast. Then followed an attempt, probably made by some influential ecclesiastic on the French side, to negotiate a peace. We may be sure that the demands made were impossible; in any case, Henry peremptorily refused them. A movement on the part of the French cavalry followed, and it was seen that the French artillery was ready to commence operations. Henry saw that he must act, and, with the happy audacity which has its occasions not less often than prudence in the conduct of great captains, ordered an advance. Sir Thomas Erpyngham, a knight grown grey in campaigning, threw his truncheon into the air. This was the signal for the forces that lay in ambush, and for the line that fronted the enemy, to advance. A loud cry of “St. George!” was raised from flank to flank, and the English moved forward with their king at their head.

The advance was a feint. Perhaps it would be more correct to say that, in case of need, it would have been converted into a serious attack, but it was probably intended to provoke the French into a forward movement. If it was so, the purpose was accomplished with the happiest result. To the French, in the pride of their overwhelming numbers and splendid equipment, it seemed nothing less than an insult that this little band of ragged, wayworn soldiers should actually advance to attack them. In a moment the plan of waiting for the enemy to waste his strength upon their solid line was abandoned. They crowded forward, as if to trample down by sheer weight of numbers the insolent invaders.

Then the English halted. The archers planted their stakes in the ground, and stood sheltered behind them, while they poured forth that deadly hail of arrows which more than once before all the chivalry of France had been unable to withstand. At first it seemed as if numbers must prevail, even against all Henry’s skilful dispositions and all the desperate valour of his men. For a time the English line was borne backward by the sheer weight of the advancing enemy. It is not easy to state precisely what turned the fortune of the day. There was the marvellous efficiency of the archers, whose clothyard shafts were driven with a force which we, who know the bow only as a toy, can hardly conceive; there was the resistance of the palisade of stakes, which stopped the charge of the French cavalry, and left the men and their horses a helpless mark for the aim of the bowmen; there was the paralysing crowd of the French attack, a crowd so thick that only those in front could even lift their hands to strike a blow; and there was, almost as potent a cause as any, the deep clay of the Agincourt plateau. It would not be easy to find a stiffer and more tenacious soil; and it was now more than usually deep and cumbersome. The long autumn rains, which had helped to thin the English army as it lay before the walls of Harfleur or painfully struggled along the bank of the Somme, now lent them a most valuable aid. Even where a man-at-arms or a knight found space to act, he was kept in a forced indolence by the sheer impossibility of moving.

And, when the day had begun to turn against the French, the panic which their valour, so powerful in attack, seems unable to resist in the moment of defeat, set in, and made it hopeless to retrieve the fortunes of the fight. Yet there were not wanting gallant attempts to turn the defeat into victory. Every one recognised how great a share the tactical skill and courage of Henry were having in the victory which now seemed about to be won. If he could be struck down where he stood, conspicuous in his embroidered surcoat and crown-encircled helmet, all might yet go well for the French. Accordingly the Duke d’AlenÇon pressed forward with a company of knights and men-at-arms to the spot where Henry was fighting. He struck to the ground with a dangerous wound in his groin the King’s youngest brother, Humphrey, Duke of Gloucester; and when Henry stepped forward to protect the fallen man, the Duke dealt him a blow so violent that it dinted his helmet and brought him to his knees. But the effort was hopeless; the odds were too great. “I yield my sword,” cried the Duke, and Henry called to his knights to save the Frenchman’s life. It was too late; he fell pierced by numerous wounds, and all his companions shared his fate.

The rally led by the Duke d’AlenÇon was the final effort of the first line of the French. It was now, we must suppose, that the English found themselves indebted to the strange protection of which one of the chroniclers speaks—a pile of French corpses so high that it sheltered them as they poured their arrows into the foe. The second line seems to have made no separate attempt to restore the fortune of the day. The unceasing shower of the English shafts, the advance of Henry and his men-at-arms, and, finally, the charge of the force which had been put in ambush on their left flank, drove them in unresisting flight. Among the leaders of the third line there were found some who showed more courage, perhaps we should say presence of mind, for courage was not wanting to the vanquished on that day. The Lord of Fauquemberg, with some other nobles, had with difficulty kept a few hundred men-at-arms together, with whom they now made a gallant charge on the English: it was useless; they were killed or made prisoners to a man. A few other such efforts were made by isolated bodies in various parts of the field, but all were equally hopeless. Everywhere the French were routed, slain, or taken. The victory of the English was complete.

The glory of this victory was marred by a deplorable incident. News was brought to Henry that the enemy were attacking his rear, and had already captured a large part of his baggage. The battle was not yet over, but it was already clear which way it was going: “during the heat of the combat, when the English had gained the upper hand and made several prisoners,” are the words which Monstrelet uses to describe the time. But victory, though in sight, was not yet gained. Henry knew that the forces of the enemy still outnumbered his own. Even yet, were they to know that any part of his line had been broken, they might rally and change the fortune of the day. Were such an effort to be made, the prisoners, of whom a considerable number had already been taken, would be a formidable danger. At the best they would require a guard of fighting men, which he could not spare; they might even take part in the attack. The safety of the army seemed to require decisive and instant action, and accordingly Henry issued orders that the prisoners were to be killed. It may well have been a necessity, but it was a necessity of the most deplorable kind. Yet we must not suppose that the opinion of those days regarded the act as it would be regarded by ourselves. “It was a most lamentable thing,” writes a Norman gentleman who was with the English army, and who was probably an eye-witness of the scene, “for all these noblemen of France were there killed and cut to pieces, heads and faces; it was a fearful sight to see.” The natural human horror at so bloody a spectacle comes out in the last words; but what seemed so lamentable a thing to the Sieur de St. Remy was that so many noblemen of France should be thus slaughtered. For prisoners, it must be remembered, were not taken out of mercy. The ransoms that they would pay were the points in the great war-game which nobles and knights were playing. No man, we may be sure, ever encumbered himself with a prisoner from whom nothing could be expected. The penniless common soldier was slaughtered without mercy. It perfectly agrees with this that the knights to whom the King issued his command flatly refused to obey it, and that he had to send a squire with three hundred archers to execute it. The money-interest of the knights in the lives of the prisoners was too powerful for the sense of discipline, seldom very strong in a feudal army, and even for the instinct of self-preservation. To kill their prisoners would be to lose their only hope of repaying themselves for the vast outlay of their equipment. Doubtless it was against the strong class-feeling of the day that a gentleman should be so put to death; this would be against the rules of the game. But it is certain that considerations of finance more than of humanity dictated this refusal to execute the King’s orders.

As a matter of fact, the horrible deed was not, after all, a military necessity. The news that was brought to Henry had been grossly exaggerated. The attack on the rear of the army was really nothing but an attempt to plunder. A few men-at-arms and about six hundred peasants, led by one Isambart, a resident in the village of Agincourt, whose local knowledge probably suggested the attempt, fell upon the baggage of the English army and succeeded in rifling a large part of it. A long list of the jewels which were lost on that occasion is preserved among the public records. Walsingham tells us that the English crown was captured, and being sent, as we may suppose, to Paris, caused great delight, as it seemed to augur the capture of the King himself. Monstrelet mentions, as part of the spoil, a sword, ornamented with diamonds, that was also part of the royal property: with this precious offering Isambart of Agincourt vainly endeavoured to appease the wrath of the Duke of Burgundy, who, justly regarding him as responsible for the massacre of the prisoners, had him thrown into prison.

Henry now rode round the field of battle, accompanied by his kinsmen and the great nobles attached to his person. He called to him the French herald, Montjoye, king-at-arms, and other heralds, French and English. “It is not we,” he said, “who have made this great slaughter, but the omnipotent God, and, as we believe, as a punishment for the sins of the French.” He then asked Montjoye, “To whom does this victory belong—to me, or to the King of France?” “To you, sire,” was Montjoye’s answer. Then looking round him, he saw the turrets of a castle rising out of the wooded hollow in which lay the village of Agincourt. “What castle is that?” he asked. He was told that it was the castle of Agincourt. “Well, then,” said he, “since all battles should bear the name of the fortress nearest to the spot where they were fought, this battle shall from henceforth bear the ever durable name of Agincourt.”

The French loss was enormous. Monstrelet gives a long list of the chief princes and nobles who fell on that fatal field. It contains, doubtless, some errors; but it has the look of having been prepared after careful inquiry. Hence we are disposed to trust his estimate, which, including princes, knights, and men-at-arms of every degree, he puts at ten thousand. The loss at Crecy, if we may trust Froissart, who, however, was not there writing of his own knowledge, had indeed been much greater, for more than thirty thousand men had been then left dead on the field. But of these not more than twelve hundred were nobles and knights, whereas at Agincourt, out of the ten thousand only sixteen hundred are said to have been “of low degree.” One hundred and six-score banners are also said to have been taken.

Besides the Duke d’AlenÇon, whose death has been described above, there fell two brothers of the Duke of Burgundy, Charles d’Albret, Constable of France, the Admiral of France, and the Master of the King’s Household. Three hundred others of the slain were persons of sufficient importance to make Monstrelet give their names and titles. The number of knights and gentlemen taken prisoners was fifteen hundred. Among them were Charles, Duke of Orleans, and the Duke of Bourbon, both princes of the blood-royal. Henry, it will be seen, attached much importance to their capture. Monstrelet puts the English loss at sixteen hundred. The principal persons among the dead were the Duke of York, who is said to have been crushed to death in the throng, and Michael de la Pole, the young Earl of Suffolk. Walsingham’s estimate is improbable. Besides York and Suffolk he says that only one squire (David Gam by name), four men-at-arms, and twenty-eight common soldiers fell. It seems impossible that several hours of severe fighting between two armies, fairly matched in armour and equipment, should not have resulted in greater loss to the conquerors. His estimate of the French loss is also much smaller than Monstrelet’s: “Of great lords,” he writes, “there fell to the number of nearly one hundred, and of soldiers and men-at-arms four thousand and sixty-nine.” He also reduces the number of prisoners to seven hundred; and on this point he would very probably have better means of information than Monstrelet.

The English army remained on the field of battle till it was quite clear that nothing more was to be feared from the enemy, and then they returned to the village of Maisoncelles, their quarters on the previous night. The next morning they again visited the scene of their victory. All the French they found there alive were put to death or made prisoners—a significant comment on what has been said above as to the slaughter of the prisoners. To kill the wounded is now considered an atrocity which no civilised enemy would commit. In the fifteenth century it was evidently the usual alternative when the wounded person was not likely to turn out a profitable prisoner. The chronicler mentions it as a matter of course, without so much as a hint of blame. Nothing more conclusively shows the absolute collapse of the French Government than the neglect of the field of battle. For nearly a week the dead were left uncared for. The most valuable parts of the spoil had been carried off by the English. “The greater part of the armour,” writes Monstrelet, “was untouched on the dead bodies, but it did not long remain thus, for it was very soon stripped off, and even the shirts and all other parts of their dress were carried off by the peasants of the neighbouring villages. The bodies were left exposed, as naked as when they were born.” The remains of the great nobles were indeed carried away—some to be buried in the Church of the Friars Minor in the neighbouring town of Hesdin; others were taken to their own homes in various parts of France. At last the compassion of the Count of Charolois, eldest son of the Duke of Burgundy, was moved by the deplorable spectacle. By his orders the bodies still left on the field, to the number of five thousand eight hundred, were interred in three trenches twelve feet wide, dug within a measured square of twenty-five yards, which was surrounded by a thorn hedge strong enough to keep out wolves and wild dogs. The enclosure still remains, a small wooded clump among the rich corn-fields of the upland of Agincourt. Within it stands a pillar erected some few years ago by the lord of the neighbouring manor, the Marquis of Tramecourt, himself a descendant of one who fought at the battle, and had the good fortune to escape with both life and liberty.