The Agincourt Campaign (Part IV)

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction inspired by true events.

This concludes the story that portrays the final weeks of Sir James Bennett's life. Sir James Bennett is the father of William, the fictional protagonist of my novel series Lancastrian. I already have plans for another short story in the future, but for now I will be focusing my efforts on the second Lancastrian book. You might also go back and read all 4 parts so the story will flow better. Please enjoy this last section of my short story!

Part IV

The Sword of Colchester

As the French knights, clad in heavy armour, trudged through the soft, muddy ground, the first volley of English arrows met them. At this range the arrows did little to their strong armor. Their progress was slow and the arrow storm did not relent. Many less fortunate, lightly armoured Frenchmen, including peasants, were easy prey for the longbows. French war horses thundered towards the English walls of red and orange shields. But before the two armies could close and clash, the horses slowed and struggled to advance in the clinging mud. Now Henry signaled to Sir James and he surged forward with his men and joined battle with the French. King Henry did not stay behind and observe, as many kings and generals in history have preferred. Rather, he hurled himself upon his enemies, and with vengeful sword rained down blows upon their heads. The French, weighed down by their heavy armour, began to curse it and struggled to defend themselves.

The English longbows continued to shower the French with constant barrages; and it became apparent that the narrow passage between the two forests favored Henry with his smaller force. His enemy’s battle lines were thick and so even the least skilled archer would hit a mark. But sadly for the French, few Englishmen wielding a longbow that day lacked either skill or experience. Another problem for the French was that these archers were protected by long, sharpened wooden stakes driven into the ground in front of them. The French horse could not successfully approach the English bowmen, so steel-tipped death continued to shower down upon the hapless French soldiers. When finally the front lines of both armies met, their clash of steel was violent, bloody and deadly for hundreds on both sides. Sir James and Fastolf did not stray far from their young king. Henry had positioned himself on a slightly raised hilltop somewhat in the center of the battlefield. He singlehandedly slew many men there who saw his battle standard as a chance to claim personal glory. Any man who dared assault him found only the blade of the English king or one of his knights. Soon, the battlefield was so crowded that the French knights and men-at-arms could not even raise an arm to strike out or use their shields.

“Archers! Drop your bows and take up swords!” ordered Henry. “The enemy cannot fight now, though I doubt they ever could. We will overwhelm their front line!”

At this moment a horn sounded out over the battle hue and cries and the two groups of archers hidden in the trees now directed their fire at the rear lines of the French. Many fell from this, and fewer still knew from whence the arrows came. The knights of Sir Benedict and Montacute stood ready to protect the lightly armoured archers who were hiding behind them.

“Ha! Show my axe a French head!” said Benedict. “There is more honour in looking your enemy in the eye as he dies than downing him from a safe distance!”

“Sir, I can shoot the button clean off a man’s tunic at this range,” a young but strong looking archer said. “Is there no honor in being skillful in the name of my king?”

“Ah, you are right!” said Benedict. “But look! The French knaves have spotted us. Thin their ranks before my axe and sword does your work for you!”

The young archer and his company loosed more arrows and their barbed heads brought pain and death to many of their foes. King Henry was right in putting faith in his longbows, for the accuracy and power of these fearsome weapons caused frustration and much death on the French side. Still they pressed against the English, and now the Dukes of Orléans charged forward and faced Henry, who was not alone as Sir James and Fastolf stood by him on either side. Even as the battle began to turn sour for France, these two dukes fought with vigor and determination. Their nearby allies rallied and they were filled with rage and courage. But Henry and Sir James and the English captains slew many together. The rear lines of the French army had been routed by the skilled archers. Those who remained were cut off from the bulk of their army. One last effort was made to fell King Henry and the dukes lunged towards him. Sir James stepped in front of his king but was met by several blows from his enemies’ weapons. He went tumbling down the hillside, momentarily leaving Henry to defend himself.

He took one down with a strong swing into the man’s neck where the armour was weak, but his sword stuck into bone and could not be quickly removed. The other duke attempted to use this as a chance to attack the king but found Fastolf’s sword thrust through his gut. King Henry was saved and the remaining French fled in fear and despair. But when the armies separated, Henry beheld his friend, Sir James, on the ground with his face in the mud and blood. Fastolf and Montacute stooped down to pick up their friend. James’ face was bruised and covered in the battlefield’s filth and gore, but most of the blood on his face and chest armor was not his own, it was that of fallen friends and foes. Henry came down to see for himself.

“Of all the fallen today, I feel most hurt by this,” he said removing his battle helm. “I do not say this lightly, for every man lost here today shall be missed and mourned, even those fighting for my enemy.”

Then King Henry went down to where Sir James had fallen. But the wounded knight was not gone yet. He came around slowly, retching and choking on the dirt and blood of the field of Agincourt.

“John, my good friend, Fastolf,” he struggled to find the breath to speak and for a while those gathered around thought he might live. “Take my sword to Colchester and give it to my wife, Lady Isabel.”

Fastolf took the sword, which had no equal in beauty and craftsmanship, save the king’s own blade.

“Do me a kindness, friend,” James continued. “Promise to take my son as a page, teach him the values of chivalry and knighthood. And if he be worthy, instruct him so he may become a knight and replace me.”

“I swear by all I treasure within England that this will happen,” answered Fastolf.

At this, Sir James Bennett, lord of Colchester, let out one last quavering breath and departed this earth. The surrounding soldiers bowed their heads, even the king.

“Shroud his body and take it away,” ordered Henry. “Go and also gather all of our dead and take an account of their names. Fastolf, come to me.”

John Fastolf went before his king and kneeled as the monarch’s sword was washed and cleaned by a servant. Then Henry turned and lightly touched each of Fastolf’s shoulders with the blade.

“John Fastolf, do you swear by your life to uphold and protect the laws of your king and England? Do you also swear to, as a knight, protect those who cannot protect themselves, to serve the lowly before yourself, and to answer the call of your king without question?”

“I do, sire,”

“Then rise,” Henry ordered and sheathed his sword. “Rise, Sir John Fastolf, lord of Caister and knight of the realm of England.”

Fastolf rose to his feet as a new man. One great knight had been lost, yet another had proven worthy to be elevated and honored with the sacred trust of chivalric manhood. The battlefield took several days to clear and even the French returned to claim their dead, who were more numerous. Sir Fastolf prepared James’ body to transport and removed his brilliant blue armour. Days later the English army arrived at Calais, where the injured and sick remained to be allowed time to recover. The remainder of the army took to the ships and sailed across the Strait of Dover. The English were well received and celebrated at Calais, even by the French peasants. Even having just learned of their own countrymen’s defeat, these coastal people were more accepting of Henry’s claim to France’s throne.

No time was wasted in boarding the ships that Sir Alistair had successfully kept safe during the time his king had been gone. Fastolf personally saw to it that Sir James’ body was secured below decks. Not many bodies were being taken back to England; instead they were mostly stacked and burned on the battlefield at Agincourt.

 “Only the fallen lords and knights will return home,” said King Henry. “But all will find rest this day in the presence of God.”

He and his knights and the priests who were present crossed themselves as the king’s ship took to the wind and sailed out upon the Strait of Dover. This voyage would not be as long as the one that saw the army coming from England to Harfleur and on this clear day the white cliffs of Dover could be seen faintly from Calais.

They intended to sail north along the coast and then finally up the Thames to London. The mist was thick when they arrived and several smaller vessels came to meet them and guide the larger ship in to the London docks. A great crowd had gathered there to meet the king, or they were there at least in hopes of doing so. While on this campaign, King Henry had sent no word home to relay any news regarding either victory or defeat. His brother, John Lancaster, the Duke of Bedford, was also there to meet the returning party. He wore a grey and sour look on his long face, one that appeared to convey disappointment over Henry’s arrival. John Lancaster had been given regency of England in the absence of his brother. He was known for taking pains to avoid battle, unlike his three brothers, who had no fear of it. Sir Fastolf took note of the duke’s foul attitude, even as he kneeled to kiss the regent’s ring.

“Glad is all of England to have you returning home, sire,” said John Lancaster as he turned away with his brother and towards the castle.

Meanwhile, Fastolf and his men, including Sir Benedict, unloaded the ship. As this happening, some of the slower and smaller vessels arrived at the capitol’s docks.

“I must go to Colchester,” Fastolf said to Benedict. “I must delivery Sir James’ sword. Then, methinks I will retire to my home at Norwich, at least until my king requires again my service.”

“Godspeed, my friend” Benedict shook Fastolf’s hand. “I will retire westward to my home. I hope we meet again soon!”

Now Sir Fastolf, eager to return home, loaded a cart with all his belongings. His men-at-arms slid the body of Sir James and his armour into another cart. Then they were on their way, leaving from the eastern Aldgate. Colchester was not far from the capitol and even with two carts their journey would not take more than a few days. Through the grassy hills and dense forests of Essex they went, though the land was not green and lush looking; it was bitterly cold and well into November and the trees had by now lost their foliage. Patches of snow lay throughout the land, but did not yet cover it entirely.

“So passes another beautiful autumn and with it a good friend and knight,” Fastolf said quietly to himself.

“What’s that, sir?” a soldier nearby came closer, thinking Fastolf’s words were directed at him.

“Just lamenting our fallen friend here,” answered the knight.

“Aye, he was a good man,”

Fastolf continued whispering to himself, only quieter. Their trek to Colchester came to an end the next day when they climbed the last hill and beheld the city below. A man mounted on a horse met them before they could approach the walls.

“State your business, travelers,” he said as he gripped the sword at his hip.

“I am Sir Fastolf of Norwich, lord of Caister-on-Sea,” the knight looked around and noticed that several bowmen had taken aim at them from among the trees and from behind the horseman.

“Ah, John!” exclaimed the man coming down off his horse. “I know my lord, Sir James Bennett, is fond of you. But I heard he had gone to war for King Henry. Did you not join them?”

“I was indeed with them,” answered Fastolf. “Our fortunes during the campaign were few and the conquest was cut short. But I come with grave news; I must speak with Lady Isabel.”

“You must tell me first,” said the man. “Sorry, mate; it’s my job to ask questions. I must protect my home. Your name and title do not exempt you from our laws.”

Fastolf nodded and slowly went to the cart where he uncovered Sir James’ corpse. The horseman and the nearby archers gasped and crossed themselves.

“I will ride ahead and tell my lady of your arrival,” said the horseman solemnly as he climbed back up onto his animal and went off towards the castle.

As Fastolf and his party moved towards the gate the knight looked and saw a young lad and an older fellow corralling a flock of sheep.

“That is Sir James’ son, William,” one of the bowman noticed where Fastolf’s attention had gone.

“Why does the lord’s son tend sheep?” he asked.

“Teaching the boy to value hard work is easy when making him responsible for the lives of such important animals,” answered the bowman. “Without our flocks, Colchester could not survive!”

Fastolf’s party, along with the cart bearing the body of the fallen knight, was met in the front of the castle. Isabel came running out to meet them. She did not even acknowledge the travelers at first; instead the new widow fell weeping on the wooden casket in which her husband lay. The soldiers and the lady’s attendants did not interrupt. Finally, she stood and addressed the people who had delivered the fallen knight.

“It is an honour to my family and this city that my husband has returned,” this she said with great difficulty through her tears. “Stay for a while, I pray, for rest and refreshment before continuing on your journey?”

“No, m’lady,” said Fastolf. “I must return to my home as quickly as possible. But, before leaving I must return to you James’ sword.”

Fastolf knelt and held the weapon up for Isabel, still within its beautifully designed sheath. She took it graciously and then retired to the castle.

“I hope one day I will see that sword again,” Fastolf said as the lady and her retinue disappeared behind the gates. “And I pray it’ll be at your son’s side soon.”

“Sir, have you forgotten to give Lady Isabel her husband’s armour?” asked a man-at-arms.

“I will keep it at Caister,” replied Fastolf. “It will help remind me of my promise to Sir James. Shall we return home, now?”

As Fastolf’s group rode out they passed the shepherd and the young boy, who marveled at the knight and his fighting men.

“Come hither, boy,” said the man. “Let us return you to your mother.”

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