Henry the Fifth of England won, at Agincourt in the year 1415, a great victory over numerically superior French forces – a victory that seemed singularly improbable, and one that, for a time, turned the tide of an already 80-year-old war in England’s favour. It has become customary to view Henry V as one of England’s greatest military heroes; but in the history play that bears Henry’s name, William Shakespeare cloaks Henry and his actions in ambiguity. Read Henry V, or watch a performance of the play, and you can view Henry V as a hero – or not. The choice is up to you.
By the time he wrote The Life of Henry V (the play’s official title), sometime around 1599, William Shakespeare had already written a series of plays dealing with Henry V’s predecessors and successor. The royal timeline, in Shakespeare’s telling of this part of medieval and early modern English history, goes about as follows:
• Richard II (reigned 1377-99) was a weak and irresolute king who, in Shakespeare’s play, pretty much deserved to lose the powers of royal government, so that he could slink away from the English throne and say self-pitying things like “For God’s sake let us sit upon the ground and tell sad stories of the death of kings!”
• Henry IV (reigned 1399-1413) successfully took the throne from Richard, but – as presented in two Shakespeare plays – spent his 14 years as king alternately (a) guarding the throne from one would-be usurper after another, (b) wrestling with his conscience over his deposition of Richard II, and (c) worrying about the bad behaviour of his son, the Prince of Wales — “Prince Hal,” the future Henry V.
[gap in the chronology for Henry V]
• Henry VI (reigned 1422-61, 1470-71), a devout king who generally can’t be troubled to take time off from religion and attend to his royal duties, takes 3 plays (!) to lose all the French territories that his father, Henry V, had won.
Given that timeline, it should be no surprise that Shakespeare wanted to fill in that history-play gap between his two Henry IV plays and his three Henry VI plays by chronicling the military success of Henry V, who reigned from 1413 to 1422 and brought England some of its greatest victories from the Hundred Years’ War with France.
As The Life of Henry V (the play’s official title) begins, the young King Henry V is an assured and confident leader. The French have rejected Henry’s frankly questionable claim to the throne of France, and the French Dauphin (or Prince) contemptuously sends Henry a chest of tennis balls – as if to say, “You’re nothing but a little boy. Go play with your toys.” But Henry has grown up from his wild and riotous Prince Hal days that were dramatized in the two Henry IV plays; and his quietly menacing response to the Dauphin’s jest – “When we have matched our rackets to these balls,/We will in France, by God’s grace, play a set/Shall strike his father’s crown into the hazard” – foreshadows the violence of war that is to come.
At the French court, the Dauphin remains scornful of Henry’s character and potential; but the King of France warns his son against that sort of idle trash-talk, saying of Henry that “The kindred of him hath been fleshed upon us,/And he is bred out of that bloody strain/That haunted us in our familiar paths” – recalling English leaders like Edward the Black Prince, who inflicted many a defeat upon the French forces at battles like Crécy in 1346.
And Henry soon proves that the Lancastrian apple has not fallen far from the Plantagenet tree. Landing on the Norman coast, Henry besieges the coastal town of Harfleur, encouraging his troops to bravery through personal example; pointing out a breach that the English forces have made in the besieged town’s walls, Henry cries out, “Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more,/Or close the walls up with our English dead!” He subsequently shows his ability to work his will upon others when, through threats of the violence that the people of Harfleur will suffer if the town is taken by force, he induces the town leaders to surrender without further resistance.
And yet, the initial English success at Harfleur notwithstanding, it soon becomes clear that Henry’s English forces, who are steadily growing weaker and sicker from the strains of campaigning in a foreign country, will have to battle a numerically superior, well-rested, well-supplied French force near the town of Agincourt in northern France.
As the time for battle draws near, King Henry borrows a cloak from Sir Thomas Erpingham, one of his officers, thus disguising himself as an ordinary gentleman of the English expeditionary force. His identity thus concealed, Henry goes amongst his soldiers in order to get a sense of their morale, so that, without knowing it, “mean and gentle [men] all/Behold…A little touch of Harry in the night.” Some men speak supportively of the burden that the King faces in leading this force, while others say things that they would not have said, had they but known that they were speaking to their king.
With his soldiers’ various testimonies fresh in his memory, King Henry reflects upon how a king carries the weight of responsibility from which ordinary men are free, and receives precious little in return: “What infinite heart’s ease/Must kings neglect that private men enjoy?/And what have kings that privates have not too,/Save ceremony, save general ceremony?”
And the hearing of his soldiers’ frank opinions regarding the English prospects for success may encourage the famous speech that Henry gives to his troops just before the battle of Agincourt. This is not just a speech; it is the speech. Think of Mel Gibson as William Wallace in Braveheart (1995) shouting to his Scottish troops before the battle of Stirling, “They may take our lives, but they’ll never take – our freedom!” Remember Bill Pullman as U.S. President Thomas Whitmore in Independence Day (1996) telling a group of pilots that “We will not go quietly into the night! We will not surrender without a fight!” Recall Viggo Mortensen as Aragorn in The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King (2003) proclaiming to an allied army at the gates of Mordor that “A day may come when the courage of men fails, when we forsake our friends and break all bonds of fellowship – but it is not this day!” Did you like those scenes? Then you can thank William Shakespeare, who laid the groundwork for inspiring cinematic pre-battle speeches 300 years before a movie camera ever shot a frame of film.
What all of these scenes have in common, of course, is that all show a courageous leader rallying, through the power of his rhetoric, an outnumbered and dispirited group of soldiers who nevertheless are on the right side of history (or fantasy). Whether the enemy consists of English soldiers from the late 13th century, or extraterrestrials bent upon exterminating humankind so they can harvest the Earth’s resources, or Orcs in the service of the Dark Lord Sauron, is almost immaterial. The point is for the viewers to go into a climactic scene of battle drama feeling inspired – and Shakespeare more than fulfills that goal in Act IV, scene iii, of Henry V.
Henry starts off with a surprising response to the Earl of Westmoreland, who expresses a pre-battle wish that the English army had 10,000 more soldiers. “What’s he that wishes so?” Henry asks jocularly. “My cousin Westmoreland? No, my fair cousin./If we are marked to die, we are enough/To do our country loss; and if to live,/The fewer men, the greater share of honour.” He takes their disadvantage in numbers and makes it an advantage in terms of the opportunity to win glory, stating openly that “if it be a sin to covet honour,/I am the most offending soul alive.”
Offering to pay the passage home of any soldier who does not wish to fight with him that day, Henry points out that the day, 25 October, is the feast of the saints Crispin and Crispinian, the patrons of shoemakers – ordinary people like Henry’s soldiers. And Henry makes a point of linking himself with his shoemaker-soldiers when he states that “he today that sheds his blood with me/Shall be my brother; be he ne’er so vile,/This day shall gentle his condition”. That same egalitarian message is re-emphasized once again when Henry tells the French herald Montjoy that “We are but warriors for the working day”. He’s not interested, as many of the French nobles are, in using the battlefield as a stage on which to display one’s noble status and breeding; he’s there to win.
And he asserts that the very smallness and cohesion of this army of ordinary men, fighting together as brothers on a day dedicated to shoemakers, will ensure not only their victory but also a form of immortality:
He that outlives this day and comes safe home
Will stand on tiptoe when this day is named
And rouse him at the name of Crispian.
He that shall see this day, and live old age,
Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours
And say, “Tomorrow is Saint Crispian.”
Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars.
Old men forget; yet all shall be forgot,
But he’ll remember, with advantages,
What feats he did that day. Then shall our names,
Familiar in his mouth as household words –
Harry the King, Bedford and Exeter,
Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester,
Be in their flowing cups freshly remembered.
This story shall the good man teach his son,
And Crispin Crispian shall ne’er go by,
From this day to the ending of the world,
But we in it shall be rememberèd –
We few, we happy few, we band of brothers…
And gentlemen in England now abed
Shall think themselves accursed they were not here,
And hold their manhoods cheap whilst any speaks
That fought with us upon Saint Crispin’s Day.
The speech is so inspiring that it should be no surprise that Henry’s English forces win the battle of Agincourt, demolishing the French army with virtually no loss of their own – or that Henry wins not only the hand but also the love of the French princess Katherine, thus ostensibly assuring that their children, being of both French and English blood, will unite the two kingdoms forever. Spoiler alert: it didn’t happen that way, and it is left to the Chorus to remind the viewer, at play’s end, that Henry VI lost all those French lands that his father had won – and that Henry V’s time was a “Small time, but in that small most greatly lived/This star of England.”
The audience cheers, and the actors return to take their bows. But is it really that simple? There have been two excellent film versions of Henry V that were made during the 20th century – Sir Laurence Olivier’s 1944 film, financed in part by the British War Office and filmed in vivid, bright colours that were meant to remind the viewer of the Bayeux Tapestry, and Kenneth Branagh’s 1989 film, with its muddy, Platoon-style battle scenes. And Branagh’s film in particular emphasizes Henry’s rage at finding that French raiders went behind the lines during the battle and killed the unarmed young pages who were standing by the army’s supplies: “I was not angry since I came to France/Until this instant.” But neither film dramatizes what Shakespeare subsequently shows – that Henry then orders the killing of the English army’s French prisoners, repeating an order he had already given once before.
And before you say, “But all the kings killed their prisoners back then!” – well, no, they didn’t. War has always been an expensive enterprise; and one of the best ways for a victorious medieval army to recoup part of their country’s investment was to hold the prisoners of the defeated side for ransom.
Is Shakespeare saying that “a king’s gotta do what a king’s gotta do”? Or is he suggesting, to the thoughtful playgoer, that this battle that killed a great many people a long time ago – and that did not permanently add any French lands to the English crown’s possessions – was a pointless exercise in bloodshed? It is the kind of ambiguity that gives a certain troubling richness to Henry V – perhaps the greatest of Shakespeare’s history plays.