Agnes Sorel: A Novel

by G. P. R. James

"He does not see them," answered the other, gravely. "He may reach the constable, even yet; for lo, now! there comes the power of France over the hill; and England on to meet her. By the holy rood! they make a gallant show, these great noblemen of France. Why, what a sea of archery and men-at-arms is here, with plumes and banners, lance and shield, and pennons numberless. I have seen many a stricken fight, and never but at Poictiers saw fairer array than that."

"Why, they will sweep the English from the face of the earth," said Martin Grille. "If that be all King Henry's power, it is but a morsel for the maw of such a monster as is coming down from Azincourt."

The monk turned toward him, and shook his head. "You know not these Englishmen," he said, with a sigh. "When brought to bay, they fight like wolves. I have heard my father tell of Creçy; and at Poictiers I was a page. On each field we outnumbered them as here, and at Poictiers we might have had them on composition had it pleased the king. But we forced them to fight, and fight they did, till the multitude fled before a handful, and order and discipline did what neither numbers nor courage could effect. Look you now, how skillfully this English king has chosen his place of battle, unassailable on either flank, showing a narrow front to his enemy, so as to render numbers of no avail. God send that they may not prove destructive."

"Ah, he is too late!" replied Martin Grille who had been watching the course of the other monk, who was riding straight toward the head of the ditch, where he had seen the archers conceal themselves. "He is too late, I fear."

His exclamation was caused by sudden movements observable in both armies. The English force had been advancing slowly in three bodies, each looking but a handful as compared with the immense forces of France, but in firm and close array, with little of that ornament and decoration which gilds and smoothes the rugged reality of war; but with many instruments of music playing martial airs, and seeming to speak of hope and confidence.

The French, on the other hand, who had lain quiet all the morning, as if intending to wait the attack of the enemy, had just spread out upon the slope in face of Azincourt, divided likewise into three vast bodies, with their wings overlapping, on either side, the flank of the English force. Splendid arms and glittering accoutrements made the whole line shine and sparkle; but not a sound was heard from among them, except now and then the shout of a commander. At the moment of Martin Grille's exclamation, the advanced guard of the French had assumed a quicker pace, and were pouring down upon the English archery, as they marched up through a somewhat narrow space, inclosed between low thick copse, hedges, and swampy ground. This narrow field forked out gradually, becoming wider and wider toward the centre of the French host; and the English had just reached what we may call the mouth of the fork, with nearly fifteen thousand French men-at-arms, and archers before them, under the command of the constable in person. Slowly and steadily the Englishmen marched on, till within half bow-shot of the French line, headed by old Sir Thomas of Erpingham, who rode some twenty yards before the archery, with a page on either side, and nothing but a baton in his hand. When near enough to render every arrow certain of its mark, the old knight waved his truncheon in the air, and instantly the whole body of foot halted short. At the same moment, each man planted before him the spiked stake which he carried in his hand, and laid an arrow on the string of his bow. A dead silence prevailed along each line, unbroken except by the tramp of the advancing French. Sir Thomas of Erpingham looked along the line, from right to left, and then exclaimed, in a loud, powerful voice, "Now strike!" throwing his truncheon high into the air, and dismounting from his horse. Instantly, from the ditch on the left flank of the French, rose up the concealed archers, with bows already drawn; and well might Martin Grille exclaim that the monk was too late. The next instant, from one end of the English line to the other, ran the tremendous cheer which has so often been the herald of victory over land and sea; and the next, a flight of arrows as thick as hail poured right into the faces of the charging enemy. Knights and squires, and men-at-arms bowed their heads to the saddle-bow to avoid the shafts; but on they still rushed, each man directing his horse straight against the narrow front of the English, and pressing closer and closer together, so as to present one compact mass, upon which each arrow told. Nor did that fatal flight cease for an instant. Hardly was one shaft delivered before another was upon the string, and, mad with pain, the horses of the French cavalry reared and plunged among the crowd, creating as much destruction and disarray as even the missiles of their foe.

All then became a scene of strange confusion to the eyes of Martin Grille. The two opposing forces seemed mingled together. The English, he thought, were forced back, but their order seemed firmer than that of the French line, where all was struggling and disarray. Here and there a small space in one part of the field would become comparatively clear, and then he would see a knight or squire dragged from his horse, and an archer driving the point of his sword between the bars of his helmet. The figure of the monk was no longer to be discerned, for he had long been enveloped in the various masses of light cavalry and camp-followers which whirled around the wings of the French army--of little or no service in the battle to those whom they Served, and only formidable to an enemy in case of his defeat.

The monk, who stood beside Martin Grille, remained profoundly silent, though his companion often turned his eye toward him with an inquiring look, as if he would fain have asked, "How, think you, goes the strife?" But, though no words were uttered, many were the emotions which passed over his countenance. At first all was calm, although there was a straining of the eye beneath the bent brow, like that of the eagle gazing down from its rocky eyrie on the prey moving across the plain below. Then came a glance of triumph, as some two or three hundred of the French men-at-arms dashed on before their companions, and hurled themselves upon the English line, in the vain effort to break the firm array of the archery. But when he saw the troops mingling together, and the heavy pressure of the French chivalry one upon the other, each impeding his neighbor, and leaving no room for any one but those in the front rank to strike a blow, his brow grew dark, his eye anxious, and his lip quivered. For a moment more, he continued silent; but then, when he saw the English arrows dropping among the ranks of his countrymen, the horses rearing and falling with their riders, to be trampled under the feet of those who pressed around--some, maddened with pain, tearing through all that opposed them, and carrying terror and confusion into the main body behind--some urged by fearful riders at the full gallop from a field which they fancied lost, because it was not instantly won, he could bear no more, but exclaimed, sharply and sternly, "They will lose the day!"

"But all that vast number coming down the hill have not yet struck a stroke," cried Martin Grille.

"Where can they strike?" said the monk, sternly. "Were the field cleared of their friends, they might yet do something with their foes. See, the banner of Alençon is down, and where is that of Brabant? I see it no more."