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 mult.i.tude 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 ma.s.s 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 princ.i.p.al 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 Alencon, which was now advancing, in the hope of retrieving the day. It was known that the Duke of Alencon 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 Ba.s.set. 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 Alencon, 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 Alencon 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 hors.e.m.e.n, 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 pa.s.sed 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.

CHAPTER XLVI.

THE CONCLUSION.

In the same large and magnificent hall of the royal castle at Calais, in which Edward III. entertained his prisoners after his chivalrous, though imprudent combat with the French forces under the walls of that town, was a.s.sembled the Court of England on the arrival of his great descendant, Henry V., some days subsequent to the battle of Agincourt.

The scene was a splendid one; for, though the monarch and many of his n.o.bility had to mourn the loss of near and dear relatives in that glorious field, no time had yet been given to prepare the external signs of grief; and the habiliments of all were, either the gay robes of peace and rejoicing, or the still more splendid panoply of war. As may be naturally supposed, the greater number of those present were men; but, nevertheless, the circle round the King's person contained several of the other s.e.x; for, besides the wife and daughters of the Governor of Calais, and the ladies of several of the princ.i.p.al officers and citizens of the town, a number of the female relations of the conquerors of Agincourt, who had come over to the English city, on the first news of the army's march from Harfleur, were likewise in the hall.

No pageant or revel, however, was going forward; and, although Henry could not but feel the vast importance of the deed that he had achieved, and the great results which might be expected to ensue, both in strengthening his power at home, and extending it abroad, yet his countenance was far more grave and thoughtful than it had been before the battle; and rejoicing, as was natural, at such vast success, he rejoiced with moderation, and repressed every expression of triumph.

After speaking for some time with the persons round him, he turned to Sir John Grey, who stood at a short distance on his left hand; and noticing with a kindly smile the knight's fair daughter, he said, "Now, my n.o.ble friend, you besought me this morning to hear what you had to bring before me, concerning Sir Richard of Woodville. Ere I listen to a word, however, let me at once say, that the good service rendered by that knight upon the field of Agincourt wipes out whatever offence he may have before committed; and without prayer or solicitation, I free him from all bonds, and pardon everything that may be pa.s.sed."

As he spoke, Richard of Woodville advanced from behind, and standing before the King, exclaimed, "I beseech you, Sire, to withdraw that pardon, and to judge me as if I had never drawn sword or couched lance in your service. If I am guilty, my guilt is but increased by having dared to break ward, and fight amidst honest Englishmen; and I claim no merit for what little I have done, except in having brought to your Majesty's feet the traitor scoundrel, Simeon of Roydon, who doubtless, with his own lips, will now confess his treason towards you, his falsehood towards me."

"If he do not," said Sir John Grey, boldly, "I have, thank G.o.d, ample means to prove it. Let him be called, my Liege, and with him a certain knave, a prisoner likewise in my hands, named Edward Dyram."

"Ha!" cried the King, with a smile--"has our old friend Ned Dyram, too, a share in this affair? I had thought the warning I once gave might have taught him to mend his manners."

"They are past mending, my Liege," answered Sir John Grey. "The villain will doubtless deny all, for he is a hardened knave as ever lived; but we can convict him notwithstanding."

"Well, call them in," answered Henry, "and have all things ready." And while Sir John Grey and Sir William Philip, the King's treasurer, quitted the circle for a moment, Henry turned to Mary Grey, and addressed her in a low tone, with a smiling countenance. The crowd drew back to let the King speak at ease; and the only words that made themselves heard were, "Methinks, fair lady, you have some interest in this affair?"

"Deep, my Liege," replied Mary Grey, with a glowing cheek.

What the King answered was not distinct to those around; but the lady raised her bright eyes to his face, replying eagerly, "More for his honour than for his life, Sire."

No time was lost, for Sir John Grey, expecting a speedy hearing, had prepared all; and in less than five minutes he re-entered the hall, followed by a number of persons, some of whom accompanied him to the end of the chamber where the King was placed, and ranged themselves behind the circle, while the rest, consisting of prisoners and those who guarded them, remained near the door by which they entered.

Henry fixed his eyes upon the group there standing, and seemed to examine them attentively for a moment in silence, then raising his voice, he exclaimed, "Bring forward Simeon of Roydon, and Edward Dyram."

The two whom he called immediately advanced, with a man-at-arms on either side. The knight held down his head and gazed upon the ground; but the servant looked carelessly around, showing neither fear nor doubt.

"Sir Simeon of Roydon," said the King, in a stern tone, as soon as the culprit stood within a few yards of his person, "You have been taken in arms against your country, and it were wise in you to make free confession of your acts. I exhort you so to do, not promising you aught, but for the relief of your own soul."

The knight paused for an instant, looked to Dyram, and then to Richard of Woodville, and replied, "I have nought to confess, Sire. Unjustly banished from my country, I had no right to regard myself as an Englishman; but it was not against you, my Liege, that I bore arms. It was against my enemy, who stands there. Him I sought, knowing him to be in your camp."

"A poor excuse," replied the King; "and you must have had speedy intelligence, since he arrived there but the night before; and you, fellow," continued Henry, turning to Dyram, "What know you of this knight, and his proceedings?"

"Very little, may it please your Grace," replied Ned Dyram; "I have seen him before, I think; but where it was, I cannot justly say."

"May I ask one question of the guard, my Liege?" demanded Sir John Grey. Henry inclined his head; and the knight proceeded--"Have these two men held any communication together in the anteroom?"