Greetings and fair tidings to you one and all, kind visitors! What awaits thee is my humble story and I pray you find it to your liking. Think you now in France, in the fall of the year 1415. A small ragged army led by the English monarch, Henry V, has ventured through the countryside on a chevaunchee' to view "his" Kingdom of France, following the sacking of Harfleur.
Pardon, gentles all, this unworthy medium to bring you so great an account. On your imaginary forces work! Envision these vasty fields of France! Hear the pounding of horses' hooves in the receiving earth, the ring of steel against iron! 'Tis your thoughts which now must run rampant, carrying the accomplishments of many years into an hourglass.
My story will not begin at its inception, nor will its final chapter be included here, at least not now. There was a turning point in my life, and it is that of which I write. When I think back, I recall the ferocious battle that October 1415 and of the valley so deep in the heart of France. I remember the endless days of marching, shrouded in mist-fine rain. Every bridge we found had been destroyed and yet our King led us on, trying to cross the river Somme. We pressed on, many of us in a daze, as mile fell upon mile. We marched in the rain, the damnable, never-ending rain. The horses were covered in mire as they and the wagons churned the road into a morass. My armor showed patches of rust and many a bowmen's leather gloves and boots, now rotted, were abandoned on the road. We were King Henry's mighty army: 6000 lean, weary and scared, marching to Calais for our very lives, running from the French army we were yet to conquer.
By night our pavilions were raised while those of lesser rank found shelter in whatever cover they could find. Many, tired from the march and failed by the poor rations, simply fell where they stopped. A good number of fine men fell ill and died; our bread rations from Boves was gone and only the scanty slivers of salty meat and brackish water remained. Since Harfleur, I had lost a cousin and several friends to the bloody flux.
On the eve of the feasts of Saints Crispin and Crispinian we encountered the French host. Three columns blocked our path to Calais. They were as great in number as all the sheep of York placed in a single field! As they advanced upon us, we halted and deployed in formation; a line of flesh and steel to stop the flood of lance and iron. It had come time to face the French beast on his terms. The priests came amongst us and prayed the Ave'. It almost seemed as if the French had disregarded our small ragged army for, after a short time, they simply rode away. As it was nearing dusk, we moved to the nearby village of Maisoncelle and made camp.
Again the rain fell, lasting most of the night. Our spirits were as dreary as the weather. There was little shelter and we were all desperately tired and hungry. We had marched for 17 days with only one day of rest. For the last 8 days the Welsh bowmen added to their burden by carrying the heavy stakes they were ordered to cut in the woods near Corbie. Many a man confessed his sins and made peace with God that night. Our camp was quiet under order from the King. The French, on the other hand, did not let us forget they were there. Long into the night their laughter and shouting could be heard. King Henry came amongst us that night and comforted us claiming that God and Saint George would lead us to victory on the morrow. He made it clear that his ransom would be made on his corpse alone; he would not be taken prisoner. His words allowed us to find a fitful sleep.
That next morning I arose before dawn and awoke those in my charge. We armored and gathered to our King. The light of dawn showed the killing arena: a freshly plowed field of corn. It was apparent that the French had forgotten the previous battles of Poitiers and Crecy. On their left were the woods of Tramecourt, around which we had marched the previous day. On their right, they were equally hemmed in by the woods and village of Agincourt. The entire French Army took up their position in this field between both sets of woods, barely three-quarters of a mile wide. They were as numerous and colorful as the leaves on the trees and with more banners waving from their lances than we had men.
King Henry drew us up in formation about three-quarters of a mile from the French line. We could see them clearly now, the rain having ended. We grouped in formation as we had done in Wales, Scotland and Ireland. The men-at-arms were ordered to dismount and form amidst the wedges of Welsh archers. I remained in the company on the right, near the Tramecourt woods and captained by the Duke of York. Nervously I tested the edge of my sword and ensured the location of my dagger and war hammer.
The King, rode up and down the line of our ranks and inspired us with his bearing and his words. He was girdled in his armor and wearing the arms of England and France on his surcoat. His helm was encircled by a gold crown studded with sapphires, rubies, and pearls. He spoke of his Right of Inheritance to France, of the previous victories at Poitiers and Crecy, and encouraged every man to do his utmost to preserve the honor of England. Lastly, he reminded the Welsh archers of the French threat to cut off three fingers of their bow hand so they could never presume to shoot at man or horse again. When he had finished, shouts of "Sir, we pray to God give you good life and victory over your enemies!" went out. And then, "For God, St. George and Harry!" The King then ordered the priests to come forward and lead us in prayer.
For several long hours we held our ground, waiting and watching the French beast. The bowmen, mindful of the French threat, grew restless and impatient. The French had settled down and patiently waited. Their ponderous, beautiful armor glistened in the sun like so many silver cocoons. Three knights sallied forth and parleyed with the King though they were sent back to their ranks. Beneath their colorful banners and the Oriflame, the French waited in cheerful confidence. We simply waited to greet death.
As time wore on, our confidence began to waiver.
We all knew that we must fight this day for on the morrow, we would not have the strength.
We were hungry, diseased, and tired from the long march. Soon, exhaustion would overcome
us and the likelihood of obtaining food in this country was slim, at best. I thought of
Lord Richard, a friend and comrade who had died of disease at Harfleur. We had promised to
share the spoils of war. I looked down at the Cross of Saint George,
which we all wore, and prayed that it would help keep me alive
this day.
The French showed no impatience to attack. Their mighty destriers were so weighted with their steel burdens that we could almost imagine them sinking to their fetlocks in the mire which was intended to be our burial ground. Henry knew this wait would only dull the keen edge of his army and soon called for Sir Thomas Erpingham to prepare the archers. Sir Thomas raised his baton into the air and cried, "Nestroque!" With his command of "Now Strike", he was answered by a massive shout from the bowmen. The King once more ordered the chaplains to pray and directed the Heralds to their positions. King Henry then gave cry to battle: "Banner Avaunt! In the name of Jesus, Mary and Saint George!" All around we knelt and took a bit of the earth and pressed it to our lips in one last act of reverence and prayed, "As I, oh God came of dust, let this by Thy Sacrament, and should I fall, let me return to Him who made me...."
We all rose and in three tight divisions marched forward to do battle with the French who set like a ponderous dragon across the road to Calais. The closer we came to that mighty wall of French steel, the smaller we seemed to shrink. When within bowshot of the enemy, Sir Thomas again raised his baton, the trumpets sounded and every archer ran forward and drove his sharpened stake into the ground pointed at the French line. This movement seemed to have awakened some inner sleeping giant as French horsemen began riding at our lines from around the wings of their armored footmen. Incited by our advance they galloped down upon us at breakneck speed uttering their battle cry, "Montjoie! Montjoie! Saint Denis!"
We stood motionless, our eyes fixated on Sir Erpingham. The cries of "Montjoie!" rose like thunder. Finally, Sir Thomas hurled his baton into the air and trumpets screamed. The sky was filled with English wood, blackening out the sun with the flight of some 5000 arrows. The noise of those deadly wingless birds filled the air and overshadowed the field drowning out the battle cries from both sides. Flight after flight, the projectiles sought their mark and rained down on the shoulders of the French with devastation. They charged on, into this hail of death to crush those of us who had dared to do battle with the lords of France.
Their cavalry had nearly reached our front line when they recognized the wall of pointed stakes. They gallantly, though vainly, fought their mounts to stop their forward charge. But, as a wave cannot be restrained from breaking upon the shore, neither could those mounted knights stop their destriers. Horses were impaled or disemboweled, their cries of pain adding to the battle frenzy. They dumped their steel loads at the foot of our lines and these French nobles were quickly dispatched. Every unprotected opening became a target for Flemish spears, Irish knives and Welsh axes. None who fell from, or with their mount, survived that first charge.
The great mass of French chivalry on foot were now advancing toward us. Flights of English arrows forced them to form columns to present the smallest target for our Welsh bowmen, but it did not help. Long hours at the butts, the life of those low-born Welshmen lay in the lengths of that yew. One hundred pounds of draw sent the French these deadly English presents. They found their way into open visors and any vulnerable place, penetrating again and again. At 50 yards the Welsh switched to bodkin flights. Able to penetrate six inches of oaken door, the French armor was but wool cloth to these English darts!
On they marched, advancing toward our center column, the Oriflamme standard waving, their armor streaked with mud. As they were about to close, they broke rank and came upon us in a run. The two armies clashed, like two beasts: tearing and ripping, screaming and bleeding, each bent on the others destruction. The strength of the French advance forced us back. With the banner of Saint George etched in my mind, and like so many others, I began fighting for my life. The enemy had no face: it was all steel, blade and fury, to destroy or be destroyed. There were no thoughts of ransom, I fought to simply stay alive. The yeomen had now joined the fray, smashing helms and plunging their daggers through the eyeslits of the fallen French.
The cries of "Montjoie!" diminished. The French dragon was now surrounded by a pack of wolves and attempted to flee. Panic had set in. Those who were foolish enough to raise a visor in order to see their route of escape, never made that mistake again. A second wave came at us and it ended like the first; it broke upon our frail wall, wavered, and fell back, leaving behind additions to the piles of French corpses and dying. In less than an hour, our small ragged army, led by the noblest of English Kings and, by the grace of God, had broken the flower of the French nobility. After looting some of the bodies for what gold and jewels I could find, I sat and looked over the field. The dead lay everywhere. Thereafter, we bound our wounds, collected our dead, and formed back into companies. With King Henry in the lead, we marched on to Calais.
The Honorable Lord Michael de la Mare is an elder son born to minor nobles in southern England. His family lives on lands awarded to his ancestors by William the Conqueror for valorous deeds performed at Hastings.
In 1415, Michael sought his own honor and fortune and joined King Henry's invasion force heading for France. Following the victorious siege of Harfleur and battle at Agincourt, Michael boarded a vessel in Calais destined for English shores. While at sea, his ship encountered a fierce storm and, blown off course, he found himself upon the shores of a new and distant land, Ansteorra.
Since A.S. XXI, THL Michael (CSM
,
CRANE
, AoA, CAA), has honed his
fighting skills in tournament and melee combat, practiced the peaceful arts of dancing,
cooking, vinting and herb lore, and has performed service unto:
the Kingdom of Meridies 
and the Coronets of Axemoor. 
Currently, Lord Michael resides in
The Barony of 
Michael has previously performed duties as Autocrat and held Baronial Offices of Seneschal, Herald, Hospitaler, Chronicler, and Reeve. More recently, he served as the Kingdom Hospitaler of Ansteorra. In addition to such peaceful pursuits previously mentioned, he is fond of "electronic scribing" and is the author and publisher of bothThe Guiding Hand, a new member's introductory guide to the Society, as well as, Sources By Mail, an "SCA Resource Directory" (currently being revised in both hard copy and web formats).
Mundanely, Michael is employed as a Production Manager with a Fortune 50 Corporation in the greater Houston area and is now pursuing a Master's Degree in Business. He enjoys historical research and desktop publishing, preparing reports and brochures for both mundane and SCA activities.