As Henry's fleet was leaving his native shores, two incidents are said to have occurred of opposite omen, such as in those days of superstition were wont to exercise powerful influence over the minds of men far removed from the lowest ranks of the people. Swans were seen swimming gaily and fearlessly around the ships, as if hailing them on their own watery element; and their appearance was noted as a happy and encouraging auspice. On the other hand, a fire broke out in one of the large ships before Henry sailed, which did considerable damage among the vessels, not without loss of many lives; and this was deemed an omen of such dire portent, that many of the King's followers would have dissuaded him from persevering in his expedition.
Henry's was a pious, but not a religiously timid or superstitious mind; and, unaffected by this incident, or the entreaties of his friends, he proceeded on his voyage forthwith, and on Friday, August 13, at five o'clock in the afternoon, he entered the mouth of the Seine, and anchored at a place called Clef de Caus,[115] between Honfleur and Harfleur, three miles from the latter town. He landed his forces without opposition; and, on coming on shore himself, he knelt down, and prayed to Almighty God to prosper his just cause.[116]
Henry resolved on laying siege to Harfleur, the inhabitants of which seemed equally determined to resist him. The siege of Harfleur, which commenced on Sunday, August 18, is described with great minuteness by several writers. His brother, the Duke of Clarence, appears to have held the most prominent place among Henry's officers; and much praise is ascribed to him for his prowess and military talent. Every mode of attack and defence then reckoned among martial tactics was carried out on both sides.
In addition, however, to the wonted privations and hardships of a protracted siege, the English host was visited by a violent disease, which spread rapidly through every grade of the army, unsparingly thinning its ranks and carrying off its officers, and threatening annihilation to the whole body. Whilst this calamity was raging at its height, and making dreadful havoc among the soldiery, an incident is recorded to have taken place, to which the mind gladly turns from the din and turmoil of the siege, and the devastations of that fatal scourge; and though the scene is itself the chamber of death, we cannot but feel a melancholy satisfaction in contemplating it for a while. An ecclesiastic, who was present in the camp, and in attendance on his royal master, records the anecdote in the most casual manner,[117] without a word of admiration or remark to call our attention to it, as though he were relating a circumstance of no unusual occurrence, and such merely as those who knew his master might hear of without surprise; whilst few pages of history bear to any monarch more beautiful and affecting evidence of habitual kindness of heart, pure sympathy with a suffering fellow-creature, and devoted fulfilment of the dearest offices of friendship. Whilst Richard Courtenay, Bishop of Norwich, one of the victims of the dysentery, was lingering in the agonies of death, we find Henry in the midst of his besieging army, at the height of a very severe struggle, war and disease raging on every side,—not in a council of his officers, planning the operations of to-morrow,—nor on his couch, giving his body and mind repose from the fatigues and excitement of his opening campaign,—but we see him on his knees at the death-bed of a dying minister of religion, joining in the offices of the church so long as the waning spirit could partake of its consolations; and then not commissioning others, however faithful representatives they might have been, to act in his stead, but by his own hands soothing the sufferings of the dying prelate, and striving to make the struggle of his latter moments less bitter. Had Henry visited the tent of the good Bishop when he first knew of his malady, and charged any of his numerous retinue to pay especial attention to his wants and comforts, it would have been regarded, at such an hour of pressing emergence, as an act worthy of a Christian King. But Henry, who in no department of his public duties ever willingly deputed to others what he could personally attend to himself, carried the same principle into the exercise of the charities of private life; and has here left a pattern of Christian sympathy and lowliness of mind, of genuine philanthropy, and the sincere affection of true friendship, worthy of prince and peasant alike to imitate. Bishop Courtenay is said to have been among Henry's chosen friends, recommended to him by the singular qualities of his head and his heart. He was a person (we are told) endowed with intellectual and moral excellences of a very high character; and Henry knew how to appreciate the value, and cultivate the friendship, of such a man. Having enjoyed the satisfaction and benefit of his society in life, now, when he was on the point of quitting this world for ever, Henry never withdrew from his bed; but, watching him with tender anxiety till the ministers of religion had solemnized the last rite according to the prevailing practice of the church in those days, even then, "in his own person," he continued to supply the wants of sinking mortality, "with his own hands[118] wiping the chilled feet" of his dying friend. The manuscript proceeds to say, that, when life was extinct, with pious regard for his memory, Henry caused his body to be conveyed to England, and to be honourably buried among the royal corpses in Westminster.
Three days after this prelate's death, on Wednesday, September 18th, an agreement to surrender on the following Sunday was entered into; the inhabitants of the town pledging themselves by a most solemn oath to abide by the terms of the agreement. The ceremony on this occasion must have had a very imposing effect. The King's chaplain, Benedict Bishop of Bangor, in his pontifical dress, carried the consecrated Host to the walls of the town, preceded by thirty-two chaplains, each in full canonicals, and attended by as many esquires, one of whom bore a lighted taper before each priest. As soon as the parties were sworn on the elements, the townsmen were assured that they need fear no acts of wrong or violence, for the King wished rather to preserve than to destroy his own territory.
On Sunday, September 22, the town was surrendered with much solemn state into Henry's hands. At the appointed hour, Henry, being dressed in the robes of royalty, ascended a throne erected under a silk pavilion on the top of the hill opposite to the town. All his peers and great men were assembled around him. "Our King"[119] (says a writer who was probably an eye-witness) "sat in his estate as royal as did ever any King; and, as it is said, there never was a Christian King so royal, neither so lordly, sat in his seat as did he." From this seat to the town a passage was formed by the English soldiers, through which the late governor, Sir Lionel Braquemont, the Lord de Gaucourt, and others, with the Host borne before them, attended by those who had sworn to observe the treaty, and by thirty-four of the chief inhabitants, passed to Henry's presence, "who forgave them their injustice in keeping his own town from him; and, having hospitably entertained them, dismissed them courteously." Thus fell into Henry's hand one of the most important towns of Normandy, after a siege of about thirty-six days, during which the zeal and valour of the assailants and the besieged were equally displayed.[120]
On the following day Henry entered the town, dismounting at the gate, and walking barefoot to St. Martin's church, in which he gave solemn thanks to God for his success. He then commanded all the women and children, and the disabled, to be separated from those who had sworn allegiance to him, as well as from those who, having refused that oath, were regarded as prisoners. The persons thus separated were next day sent out of the town, to the number of nearly two thousand, loudly lamenting their fate. They were escorted by the English; and all persons belonging to the church, and the women and children, had a present of five sous for their journey, and were permitted to dress themselves in their best apparel, and carry each a moderate bundle with them. It was forbidden to search the priests, and also the heads or the bosoms of the women. At St. Aubon, about four miles from Harfleur, they were entreated to refresh themselves with bread and cheese and wine; at Lislebone the Marshal Boucicault received them, and they were forwarded by water to Rouen. At Henry's invitation, many tradesmen and others came over from England, and became inhabitants of Harfleur; the King, with the desire of strengthening the place, having guaranteed, by a proclamation through England, a house of inheritance to all who would settle there.
About this time Henry sent a message to the Dauphin, challenging him to single combat, and so to decide the dreadful struggle in which the two kingdoms were engaged, without the further effusion of blood. Occasion has been taken to reflect on this act of Henry's, as a stain both on his personal valour and on his principles of justice: the first, because he was twenty-seven years old, and the Dauphin not twenty; the latter, because it were unjust "to expect that so important a stake should be hazarded on the result of such a meeting." To enhance Henry's guilt of cowardice, we are told that he challenged "a mere youth, of whose prowess or bodily strength there is not the slightest evidence, and who died in the December following." This is not the first time we have had occasion to remark on this same writer's injustice towards Henry's memory. Why mention the Dauphin's death in the following December, except to insinuate that Henry knew he was then in a weak state of bodily health? Of this, however, there is not the shadow of reason for suspecting Henry. On the contrary, the evidence tends to the directly opposite conclusion. The Dauphin died on the 25th December following; but so sudden was his decease, that a suspicion was excited of his having been poisoned. He had for a long time been actively engaged in heading one of the contending parties in France, and he is reported to have been a bold and presumptuous prince.[121] And, even a month after the battle of Agincourt, we find him, apparently in full strength both of body and mind, exercising the authority of the King, his father, in Paris; vigorously and effectually resisting the entrance of the Duke of Burgundy, who marched with his army direct to the gates of that city, determined to force for himself an entrance into it. And, on his father's relapsing into his malady, he vigorously seized the government, setting the Duke of Orleans at defiance, and carrying off the King, his father, ill as he was, to the siege of Arras.[122] Whether the difference of age between these two young warriors is so great as to justify such strong reflections on Henry's courage, must be left to the judgment of impartial minds. But, when the Dauphin is called a mere youth, it must be borne in mind that he was considerably older than Henry was when he headed his father's troops in Wales, or fought so gallantly in the field of Shrewsbury.
But we must not let this charge, affecting Henry's valour and justice, be dismissed without observing that not only did Henry believe, but it was the universal belief of the age, that "trial by battle" was a proper way of ending a dispute, and one acceptable to God: one in which the justice of the quarrel decided, more than the strength or skill of the combatants. We have proved that there could have been no grounds for Henry's supposing that he was sending a challenge to a youth enervated by sickness; and the difference of age alleged now, at length, in disparagement of Henry's valour, would have been scouted by all the good knights of Christendom, had it been pleaded as an apology for the Dauphin declining the challenge. Surely it indicates a conviction that the points in which the character of a man, famed for bravery and justice, is assailable, are few and unimportant, when such frivolous attacks as this are made on his fair fame.