Henry V

If only we had divine inspiration, our play might rise to the highest level of imagination. If we had a stage as big as a kingdom, real kings and queens to act the part of kings and queens, and royalty to also witness the glorious spectacle, then it would be as it really was. Then valiant King Harry would resemble the god of war, as he did in life, and famine, sword, and fire would sit like dogs at his feet, waiting to be unleashed. But, ladies and gentlemen, since that’s not the case, you must forgive us plain, ordinary men who dare to act out so great a story on this humble stage. Can this theater seem to contain the sweeping fields of France? Could we even squeeze into this little theater the helmets that looked so frightening at Agincourt? Hardly! But, pardon us, because just as a few strokes of a pen, a few zeros, can signify a huge number, we, who are zeros in this great story, can work on your imagination. Pretend that within the confines of this theater sit two great kingdoms divided by a narrow but perilous ocean. Let your thoughts make up for our imperfections. Divide each man into a thousand, and there you will have an imaginary army. Imagine, when we talk of horses, that you see them planting their proud hooves in the soft earth. Because now it is your thoughts that must dress up our kings and transport them from place to place. Your thoughts must leap over huge spans of time, turning the events of many years into the space of a few hours. To that end, consider me a sort of chorus, here to help tell the story. And, as the speaker of any prologue should, I ask you to hear our play courteously and to judge it kindly.

My lord, this bill that’s being proposed is the same one that was proposed in the eleventh year of old King Henry’s reign. Everyone thought it would pass then, and it probably would have had it not been for the great civil unrest and uncertainty of the time, which required the matter to be put off.

But how will we keep it from being passed now, my lord?

We have to think about that. If it does pass, the Church will lose more than half of what it possesses, because the bill would strip us of enough real estate left to the church by wealthy, pious men in their wills to support fifteen earls and fifteen hundred knights, six thousand two hundred squires, and a hundred well-supplied almshouses for the relief of lepers, old-age pensioners, the poor, and those too weak or sick to work. Add to that a yearly sum of a thousand pounds to go directly into the king’s coffers. That’s what the bill says.

That would be quite a drain.

It would drain us dry.

But what can be done to prevent it?

The king is virtuous and kind.

And a true lover of the holy Church.

You wouldn’t have expected it based on how he acted as a youth. But no sooner had his father stopped breathing than the prince’s wildness died too. Really, at that precise moment he gained a capacity for reflection, which appeared like an angel to chase away the sinful part of him, leaving his body like a paradise, fit to house only lofty thoughts and feelings. You never saw anyone become serious and studious so quickly. You never saw such a total transformation, as though a wild river, rushing through, had swept away his faults. Such a collection of stubborn character flaws was never banished from one place so suddenly as in the case of this king.

We are fortunate in the change.

If you just listen to him discuss theological matters, you’ll find yourself thinking privately what an excellent bishop he would make. Hear him debate matters of domestic policy, and you’d swear he had made them his constant study. Listen to him talk about war, and you’ll hear elegant and thrilling accounts of the battles. Bring up any political topic, and he’ll untangle it as easily as if it were his own garter. And the result is that when he speaks, the very air—which is free to go where it likes—stops dead, and men stand in silent wonder, hoping to catch the benefit of his gorgeous utterances. There must be skill and experience behind all this abstract thought, but it’s anyone’s guess how he obtained it, since in his youth he preferred shallow pursuits, with uneducated, crude and superficial companions. He spent his time drunken, overfed, and constantly seeking out entertainment, with no inclination for learning or quiet contemplation, nor any limit to his tolerance for public haunts and crowds.

Strawberries grow underneath nettle plants, and berries grow best when they’re planted next to inferior fruit. In the same way, the prince hid his serious side under the guise of wild behavior. Just like summer grass, which grows fastest during the night, this sober quality was able to grow and thrive all the better for being undetected.

That must be it, because the age of miracles is passed, and we have to find reasonable explanations for why these things happen.

But tell me, my lord: as to the softening of this bill proposed by the House of Commons, does his Majesty favor it or not?

He seems neutral, perhaps leaning a little more toward our side than that of our opponents—since I’ve made his Majesty an offer, following a meeting with our fellow bishops. The offer regards certain matters having to do with France that his Grace and I have been discussing. My offer would involve us giving him a greater sum than the clergy ever gave at one time to any of his predecessors.

How did he take the offer, my lord?

Favorably, except that there wasn’t enough time for his Grace to hear, as I sensed he would have liked to, the details about how he is rightfully entitled to certain dukedoms in France, and to the throne of France in general, through clear lines of descent originating with his great-grandfather, Edward III.

What kept you from telling him this?

The French ambassador arrived at that moment and asked to see the king. And, in fact, I think they’re meeting together right now. Is it four o’clock?

It is.

Then let’s go in and hear what he has to say—though I think I can guess before the Frenchman has uttered a word.

I’ll accompany you. I’m also eager to hear it.

Where is my gracious lord of Canterbury?

He’s not here.

Send for him, dear uncle.

Shall we call in the ambassador, my liege?

Not yet, cousin. Before I hear him, I want to decide some important issues that are on my mind concerning my throne and France.

May God and his angels guard your sacred throne and grant that you dignify it for a long time.

Thank you, I’m sure. My learned lord, kindly explain to us the legal and religious grounds for why this French Salic law either should or shouldn’t bar me in my claim. And God forbid, my dear and faithful lord, that you should invent, twist, or distort your interpretation, or burden your conscience by subtly arguing for false claims. For God knows how many healthy men will shed their blood in support of whatever you persuade me to do. So think carefully before you incite me to wage war. I charge you, in the name of God, be careful what you say. For mighty kingdoms such as England and France have never gone to war with one another without much bloodshed, every innocent drop of which cries out against the wrongdoer who caused such loss of life without good reason. With this in mind, speak, my lord. And I will listen, consider, and earnestly believe that what you say is spoken with a conscience as pure as a newly baptized soul.

Then hear me, gracious sovereign, and all you peers who owe your lives and duty to this imperial throne. There is no legal obstacle to your Highness’ claim to France except the following rule, which the French cite from King Pharamond: In terram Salicam mulieres ne succedant (No woman shall inherit property in the Salic land). The French wrongly interpret “the Salic land” to mean France, and they cite Pharamond as the founder of this law that bars female succession to the throne. But their own authors assert that the Salic land is in Germany, between the Sala and the Elbe rivers, where Charles the Great left behind certain French settlements after conquering the Saxons. The French settlers despised the German women because they were unfaithful to their husbands, so the settlers passed this law that no woman should have right of inheritance in Salic land. And the Salic land—the region between the Elbe and the Sala, in Germany, as I said—is now called Meissen. It is clear, then, that the Salic law was not intended for the realm of France. Nor did the French possess the Salic land until four hundred twenty-one years after the death of King Pharamond, incorrectly thought to be the founder of the law. He died in the year 426, and Charles the Great conquered the Saxons and settled Frenchmen in the region beyond the river Sala in the year 805. Besides, according to the French historians, King Pepin, who deposed Childeric, based his own claim to the crown of France on his descent from Blithild, the daughter of King Clothair. Another case: Hugh Capet, who usurped the crown from Charles the duke of Lorraine—sole male heir in a direct line from Charles the Great—passed himself off as heir to Lady Lingare, daughter of Charlemagne, who was the son of Lewis the Emperor (who was the son of Charles the Great), in order to give his claim to the throne more validity (though, in fact, the claim was completely false and worthless). Another case: King Lewis the Tenth, who was sole heir to the usurper Capet, could not rest easy as king until he was assured that Queen Isabel, his grandmother, was a direct descendent of the Lady Ermengare, daughter of the aforementioned Charles duke of Lorraine, by which marriage the line of Charles the Great was reunited with the throne of France. Thus, it should be clear as day that King Pepin’s title, Hugh Capet’s claim, and the resolution of King Lewis’ doubts all plainly derive from the female. To this day, the kings of France follow this unspoken rule, even though they point to this Salic law to bar your Highness from inheriting it through the female line. They prefer to obscure matters rather than reveal how corrupt their own claims to the French crown are. They usurped that crown from you and your ancestors.

Can I justifiably and in good conscience make this claim?

If not, mighty sovereign, let the blame be mine. For it is written in the book of Numbers: “When the man dies, let the inheritance descend unto the daughter.” Gracious lord, claim what is yours. Unfurl your banners of war. Take your mighty ancestors as models. Go to the tomb of your great-grandfather, from whom your own title to the crown derives. Invoke his warlike spirit and that of Edward the Black Prince, your great-uncle, who fought a tragic battle on French soil, routing the French army in full force while his mighty father stood by on a hilltop, smiling to see his son steeped in the blood of French noblemen. O noble English, who could take on the entire French army with only half their forces, leaving the other half to stand by, idle and laughing.

Awaken the memory of those valiant ancestors and with your own powerful arm make their deeds live again. You are their heir and sit on their throne, and the blood and courage that glorified them run in your veins. You, my most powerful sovereign, are in the very prime of youth, ripe for glorious deeds and great enterprises.

The other kings throughout the world all expect you to take the offensive, just like your lion-hearted forebears.

They know your Grace has justification, as well as the money and military strength. And so you do. No king of England was ever backed by wealthier nobles or more loyal subjects. Their bodies may remain here in England, but their hearts are encamped on the fields of France already.

Oh, let their bodies follow, my dear king, to win back what’s rightfully yours with blood and sword and fire. And to that end, we, the clergy, will raise your Highness a sum greater than your ancestors were ever given at any one time.

We must not only arm ourselves to invade France, but must also apportion troops to defend against invasion by the Scots, who will see this as a perfect opportunity to attack.

Your subjects in the north, gracious sovereign, will provide a wall of defense against Scottish thieves across the border.

I don’t mean merely bands of thieves. What we have to worry about is a full-scale invasion from Scotland—always an unreliable neighbor. You’ll find that my great-grandfather never went to war with France without Scotland making an attack on his undefended kingdom, pouring in full force like the tide through a gap in a dyke, troubling the depleted country with violent attacks, and laying siege to towns and castles. The whole of England, being unprotected, trembled with fear.

But the country was more frightened than hurt, my liege. Take this example: when all its knights have been in France and all its noblemen absent, England has not only defended itself well, but actually seized the Scottish king and penned him up like a stray dog. Then he was sent off to France. He enhanced King Edward’s fame, adding royalty to his captives and thus making England’s own history as rich with glory as the muddy floor of the sea is rich with sunken ships and innumerable treasures.

But here’s an old, true saying: “If you want to win France, start with Scotland.” For when the eagle England leaves her nest to seek prey, the weasel Scot always comes sneaking around to suck dry her princely eggs and, like the mouse when the cat’s away, destroy more than she can actually eat.

It would follow from this that the cat should stay home. But that is a false conclusion, since we have locks to keep our valuables safe and clever traps to catch little thieves. While the armed hand fights in foreign lands, the wise head defends itself at home. For though the state is divided into different levels and functions, it all works in agreement for a unified purpose, a natural and perfect end such as we find in music.

That is why God divided humanity into various functions, so as to keep human endeavor moving ever forward, the one single fixed element—the aim—being obedience. Honey bees operate in just such a communal way. In fact, you can learn a lot about how to run a well-ordered kingdom from these creatures. They have a king and officers of sorts. Some, like magistrates, dole out punishment at home, while others venture forth for commerce, like merchants. Still others, armed like soldiers with stingers, pillage the summer flowers, bringing the booty triumphantly home to the royal tent of their emperor, who is preoccupied with governing. The emperor supervises the masons as they build gold roofs, the ordinary citizens as they process the honey, the humble laborers as they crowd through the city’s narrow gate with their heavy burdens, and the solemn-looking judge (with his grouchy hum) as he delivers lazy, unproductive drones to pale executioners. From this, I conclude that many different elements can work toward one common end—just as many arrows, shot from different points, converge on a single target; just as many roads meet in a single town; just as many fresh streams empty into only one salt sea; just as the many radiuses of a sundial unite at its center. Just so, a thousand actions, once set in motion, will result in one desired object, and all will be well carried out and have a successful end. Therefore, head to France, my liege! Divide your lucky England into four. If you take even one quarter with you to France, you will nevertheless make the whole country shake. If we cannot defend our country with three times such a power left at home, then we deserve to be harassed by an invader and lose our reputation as a powerful and politically savvy nation.

Call in the messengers sent from the Dauphin.

Now I’ve made up my mind, and with God’s help—and yours, you nobles who are the mainstay of my power—I’ll force France to fear me, or I’ll break her into pieces, as she’s rightfully mine. Either I’ll sit, ruling with absolute authority over France and all her dukedoms, or I’ll lay these bones in a common grave, with no stone or inscription over them. Either the story of my deeds will be declaimed loudly and without restraint, or else my grave will remain speechless, like a Turkish mute, not honored with even an epitaph etched in wax.

I’m ready now to hear what my good cousin the Dauphin has to say—for I hear that the greeting you bear is from him, not the king.

Will your Majesty grant us permission to freely express the message we’ve been asked to convey? Or should we be tactful and only hint at what the Dauphin sent us to say?

I am no tyrant but a Christian king, whose emotions are as tightly controlled as the wretches who languish in our prisons. Therefore tell me the Dauphin’s mind frankly and without constraint.

Here it is then, in as few words as possible. Your Highness recently sent word to France claiming certain dukedoms as your own, in the name of your great ancestor, King Edward the Third. By way of answer, the prince our master says that you’re acting like the immature youth that you are. He warns you to take note: there’s nothing in France that you can win by dancing. You can’t party your way into dukedoms there. He therefore sends you this casket of treasure as a gift more suited to your character. And in return for this gift, he wishes you to drop your claim to the dukedoms. This is the Dauphin’s message.

What’s the treasure, uncle?

Tennis balls, my liege.

I’m happy the Dauphin has such a good sense of humor. Thank you for his present and your trouble. Once I’ve put my rackets to these balls, I’ll play a set in France, God willing, that will knock his father’s crown right out of the court. Tell him he’s got himself such a willing opponent that we’ll be chasing balls all over France. And I understand perfectly his sneering reference to my wilder days. He doesn’t realize how useful they were to me. For a long time, I didn’t value this humble throne of England, and therefore lived at some remove and gave myself over to riotous living. Men tend to be at their most irresponsible when they’re away from home. But tell the Dauphin I will retain the dignity of kingship and appear all the more royal and glorious on the throne of France. Precisely for this purpose I went about like a commoner and experienced the life of the ordinary man. Now I’ll rise there with such glory that I’ll dazzle all the eyes of France. I’ll shine so brightly that even the Dauphin will be struck blind. And tell the laughing prince that this joke of his has transformed his tennis balls into cannon balls, and the destructive vengeance they bring with them will be his responsibility. His mocking will mock many thousands of widows out of their husbands. It will mock mothers out of their sons, and mock castles down. There are people yet unborn and unconceived who will have reason to curse the Dauphin’s scorn. But all this lies with God, to whom I do appeal. In God’s name, inform the Dauphin I am coming, to avenge myself and to put forth my rightful hand in a sanctified cause. So go in peace. And tell the Dauphin his joke will look pretty stupid when thousands more weep than ever laughed at it. (to attendants) Give them safe conduct.—Farewell.

That was a humorous message.

I hope to make the sender blush for it. Now, lords, don’t let slip any opportunity that might be advantageous for our expedition. My thoughts are now bent entirely on France—except my thoughts about God, who takes precedence over this undertaking. Therefore, let’s set about mustering the requisite number of troops and give consideration to anything that can be expected to speed our enterprise. For, with God on our side, we’ll chastise this prince on his father’s own doorstep. Therefore, let every man give some thought to how this noble expedition may be undertaken.

Now all the young men of England are inspired and have stored their party clothes in the closet. Armorers are doing great business, and all men think about is honor. People are selling off their land to buy warhorses so they can follow the exemplary king into battle as if they had winged feet, like Mercury. There’s a sense of anticipation in the air. In the minds of Harry and his followers, visions of the kingdoms, spoils, and titles to be won eclipse thoughts of actual fighting. The French, meanwhile, have been forewarned of all this preparation by their spies and tremble in fear. They seek to derail the English with cowardly tricks. Oh, England! You are physically small but inwardly great, like a mighty heart enclosed in a small body. There is nothing you couldn’t accomplish if all your subjects were loyal and loving! But, see, the king of France has detected your weak spot: a nest of faithless traitors, whose treachery he has purchased with gold. Three corrupt men—Richard, earl of Cambridge; Henry, Lord Scroop of Masham; and Sir Thomas Grey, knight, of Northumberland—have agreed to conspire with the French in exchange for money. The gracious king will die by their hands in Southampton before he sets sail for France—if Hell and treason have their way. Stick with us, ladies and gentlemen, and we’ll make a play, conquering space and time. Imagine that the traitors have been paid and made their choice. The king has left London, and the scene now shifts, friends, to Southampton. That’s where you must pretend the theater is; that’s where you must sit. From there we’ll safely carry you to France and back, calming the waters of the Channel to provide you with a smooth voyage. For if we can help it, we’d just as soon nobody was made sick by our play. But we won’t shift the scene to Southampton until Henry reappears.

Good to see you, Corporal Nym.

Good day, Lieutenant Bardolph.

Tell me, are you and Ensign Pistol friends again yet?

For my part, I really don’t care. I don’t say much, but when the time comes, we’ll smile at each other. But that’s as it may be. I won’t fight, but I can close my eyes and take a swipe with my sword—just a simple sword, but so what? It’s good enough to toast cheese, and it will survive cold as well as another man’s sword. And that’s that.

I’ll buy you both breakfast if it will make you two friends. Then we can all three be comrades on our way to France. How about it, Corporal Nym?

Well, I will live until I die, that’s for sure, and when I can’t live anymore, I’ll deal with it. That’s it. That’s really all I can say.

It’s true, corporal, that he is married to Nell Quickly. And it’s true that she did you wrong, since you were engaged to her.

It’s not for me to say. Things are what they are. Men may sleep, and when they do they may have their throats with them, and some people say knives have blades. What must be must be, and though my patience is worn out, it will last a little longer. There must be some resolution. Well, it’s not for me to say.

Here comes Ensign Pistol and his wife. Be cool now, corporal.—How are you, Pistol, my good host?

You peasant dog, are you calling me a host? I swear, I scorn the word. My Nell isn’t going to be taking any lodgers.

No, not for long, that’s certain. For we couldn’t even put up a dozen or so nice girls who make an honest living sewing without our neighbors thinking we were running a brothel.

Oh, dear. If he isn’t cut down in his tracks right now, we’ll see willful adultery and murder committed.

Good lieutenant, good corporal, don’t fight each other here.

Pish!

Pish to you, you mangy dog, you pointy-eared Icelandic mutt.

Corporal Nym, be a man and put away your sword.

Get lost, will you? (to PISTOL) I’d like to get you solus.

Solus, you unspeakable dog? You loathsome snake, I throw your solus in that weird face of yours, in your teeth and your throat and in your hateful lungs, and even worse, in your nasty mouth! Shove that solus into your bowels, because I can take you. My gun is cocked and ready to fire.

I am not some fiend of hell: you can’t get rid of me with spells. I’m in a mood to beat you up pretty good. If you get nasty with me, Pistol, I’ll stab you with my sword, in fair play. If you’d like to step aside with me, I’ll give you a little prick in the guts, all in fair play, if I can, and that’s the way it is.

You revolting braggart and hellish creature! Your grave is gaping open, and your death is near. So take your last breath.

Listen, listen to what I say: whoever strikes first, I’ll run him through with my sword, as sure as I’m a soldier. (drawing his sword)

That’s an oath of great power, and our fury must subside. (PISTOL and NYM sheath their swords) Give me your hand—your forefoot. You have a brave spirit.

I’ll cut your throat, sooner or later—that’s just how it is.

Couple à gorge is the word for what you’re trying to say. I defy you again. You dog, do you think you’ll take my wife? No, go to the hospital, into the ward where they treat venereal disease, and get yourself a leprous, diseased prostitute like Doll Tearsheet and marry her. I won the former Mistress Quickly and I’ll keep her as my only wife, and—Damn it! That’s enough. Come on!

My host Pistol, you must come to my master. You too, my hostess: he is very sick and should be put to bed. Bardolph, put your face between his sheets and act as a warming pan. Really, he’s very sick!

Get out of here, you punk!

I swear, he’ll be food for the crows soon. The king has broken his heart. Good husband, come home soon.

Come on, can I get you two to make up? We have to go to France together: why should we cut each other’s throats?

Let rivers flood and fiends howl for food!

Are you going to pay the eight shillings I won from you in a bet?

Paying debts is for peasants.

I’m going to take it from you now. That’s how it is.

We’ll see, won’t we? Do your best.

By this sword, I’ll kill whichever one of you makes the first thrust. By this sword, I will.

“By this sword” is an oath, and oaths must be kept.

Corporal Nym, if you want to be friends, be friends. If not, then you can be my enemy, too. Come on, put it away.

I’ll give you a noble right now, and I’ll give you liquor, too, and friendship and brotherhood. I’ll live for Nym, and Nym will live for me. Is that fair? For I’ll be selling provisions to the troops, and there’ll be profits to go around. Give me your hand.

I’ll get my noble?

In cash.

Well, then, that’s how it is.

If you ever had a mother, come in quickly to Sir John. The poor thing, he is so shaken with a fever that it’s terrible to see. Sweet men, come to him.

The king has done him a bad turn. That’s all there is to it.

Nym, what you say is true. His heart is broken and corroborate.

The king is a good king, but things must be as they may. He has his moods and his ways.

Let us go sit with the knight; for, my little lambs, we will survive him.

I must say, the king is taking a bold risk letting these traitors go free.

They’ll be arrested in a little while.

How smooth and cool they seem! Just as if they were perfectly loyal and faithful.

The king has been informed of all their plans, but they have no idea.

No, but it’s unbelievable that the man who was his dearest friend, a man he has showered with love and favor, would repay the king with treachery, selling his own sovereign’s life to a foreign power!

Now that the wind is favorable, let’s board the ship.—My Lord of Cambridge and my good Lord of Masham and you, my noble knight, what do you think? Will our army cut a swath through the fighting force of France, achieving and accomplishing everything I’ve assembled them to do?

No doubt it will, my liege, if each man does his best.

I have no doubt about that, since I know there isn’t a man among us who isn’t with me wholeheartedly, or a soul left behind who doesn’t wish us success and conquest.

There never was a monarch better feared and loved than yourself, your Majesty. I don’t think there’s a single unhappy subject living under the protection of your government.

True. Those who were bitter enemies of your father in his time have turned their bitterness to sweetness, serving you loyally and wholeheartedly.

Yes, I have great cause to be thankful. I’m more likely to forget how to use my own hand than how to reward virtue and merit as they deserve.

And so your subjects serve you all the more energetically, hopeful of success and reward.

I expect no less. Uncle of Exeter, release the man who was arrested yesterday for railing against me. I believe he only did it because he drank too much, and now that he’s had a chance to think about his actions, I can pardon him.

That’s merciful but a bit careless. He should be punished, your Majesty. If we tolerate such behavior, we’re in danger of encouraging it.

Oh, let us be merciful anyway.

Your Highness could be merciful but still punish.

Sir, it would be merciful to let him live after beating him severely.

I’m afraid your great love and concern for me lead you to deal too harshly with this poor fellow. If minor lapses caused by drunkenness are not to be tolerated, how will we punish capital crimes that result from much planning and forethought? No, I’ll have that man released, despite the fact that Cambridge, Scroop, and Grey, in their extreme concern for my safety, would prefer that he were punished. And now, let’s turn to our business with the French. Who are the new commissioners?

I am one, my lord. Your Highness told me to ask for my commission today.

You told me to do the same, my liege.

And me, too, my royal sovereign.

In that case, there is yours, Richard Earl of Cambridge; there yours, Lord Scroop of Masham; and, sir knight, Grey of Northumberland, this one is yours. (he gives each of them a piece of paper) Read them, and trust that I recognize your true worth. My Lord of Westmoreland, and uncle Exeter, we will set sail night.—Why, what’s this, gentlemen! What’s in those papers that makes you change color?—Look how pale they’re turning! Their cheeks are like paper.—What are you reading that makes you turn white?

I confess my crime and throw myself on your Highness’ mercy.

To which we all appeal.

The mercy that was alive in me a moment ago was smothered and killed by your own advice. For shame, don’t talk of mercy. Your own arguments turn against you, like dogs who bite their own masters.—Princes and noble peers, take a look at these English monsters. Cambridge here, you know how I favored him and treated him with every respect due his rank. He was bought for a few coins, entering easily into this conspiracy with the French, promising to kill me here in Southhampton. And this knight, whom I’ve treated as generously as I have Cambridge, also joined the plot. But, oh, what can I say to you, Lord Scroop? You cruel, ungrateful, savage, and inhuman creature! You who had access to all my thoughts, who knew me to the inmost part of my soul, who could have had any amount of gold from me if you’d needed it and only asked me: is it possible that a foreign power could find in you even enough evil to injure one of my fingers? Though the truth of your treachery is as plain as black on white, I can scarcely believe it, it’s so past understanding. Treason and murder have always gone together, like two devils joined in a common purpose. That’s natural. But you, against all reason, added something new to the equation. You added the sheer improbability that you could do this. Whatever fiend it was that seduced you must win the prize for excellence in hell. All other devils who tempt people to treason patch together some motive, put together from shreds and patches of righteousness. But the devil that tempted you gave you no reason why you should commit treason other than to win the name of traitor. The demon who seduced you could stride the world over with the proud gait of a lion, could return to hell and tell the devil’s legions, “I will never win another soul as easily as I won that Englishman’s.” How you have poisoned my faith in people! Now I am suspicious of everyone. Are there men who appear dutiful? Why, so did you. Are there those who seem serious and knowledgeable? Why, so did you. Do they come from good families? Why, so did you. Do they seem religious? Why, so did you. Do they live in moderation, free from excessive emotion—stable rather than changing their minds constantly—tastefully dressed, not merely seeing but also listening, and trusting no impression without confirmation? That’s how sound a man you appeared. Your fall has left a blot that opens even the best and brightest to suspicion. You have broken my heart. This treachery of yours is like the second Fall of man.—Their crimes are revealed. Arrest and punish them according to the law, and may God pardon them for what they would have done.

Richard Earl of Cambridge, I arrest you for high treason. Henry Lord Scroop of Masham, I arrest you for high treason. Thomas Grey, knight, of Northumberland, I arrest you for high treason.

A just God has discovered our plot. I regret my crime more than my death, and I beg your Highness to forgive me, while punishing my body with death.

For my part, I didn’t do it for the money, though I admit the money encouraged me to do what I was planning sooner. But I thank God that I failed in my scheme, and I rejoice in paying the penalty, as I beg God and you to pardon me.

No faithful subject ever rejoiced more at the discovery of most dangerous treason than I now rejoice that I was thwarted in a damnable undertaking. Pardon my crime, sovereign, but not my person.

May God in His mercy forgive you. This is your sentence. You have conspired against us with a proclaimed enemy and accepted his money in exchange for killing us. In doing so, you would have sold your king to slaughter, his princes and lords to slavery, his subjects to oppression and abuse, and his whole kingdom to ruin. I seek no revenge for myself, but so dearly do I hold the safety of my kingdom, which you sought to destroy, that you must be punished according to her laws. So go to your deaths, poor miserable wretches, the pain of which may merciful God give you the strength to endure. And may you truly regret your terrible crimes. Take them away.

And now, my lords, off to France. This invasion will be as glorious to you as it is to me. I have no doubt that it will be a swift and successful war, since God so graciously exposed this dangerous plot. I’m now sure that every bump in the road has been removed. Let’s go forth, dear countrymen. Our strength is God. Let’s get going. We’re off to sea, banners flying. I’ll be no king of England if I’m not also king of France.

Please, sweet husband, let me come with you as far as the town of Staines.

No, because my manly heart is grieving. Bardolph, be happy.—Nym, rouse your bragging spirits.—Boy, be brave. Falstaff is dead, and we must mourn him.

I wish I were with him, wherever he is—in heaven or in hell.

Oh, no, he’s surely not in hell. He’s in Arthur’s bosom, if any man ever went to Arthur’s bosom. He died as peacefully as a baby. He departed right between twelve and one, just as the tide was turning. For after I saw him fumbling with the sheets and playing with imaginary flowers and smiling at the ends of his fingers, I knew it was the end. His face was gaunt and he was babbling about green fields. “Now, now, Sir John!” I said. “What’s all this? Cheer up!” And he called out “God, God, God!” three or four times. To soothe him, I told him not to think of God, that I hoped it wasn’t yet time to bother with such thoughts. So he asked me to put more blankets on his feet. I put my hand into the bed and felt his feet, and they were stone-cold. Then I felt his legs, and they were stone-cold, and so I moved upward and upward, and his whole body was stone-cold.

They say he cried out against sherry.

Yes, he did.

And women.

No, he did not.

Yes, he did. He said they were devils incarnate.

He could never bear carnation. It was a color he never did like.

He once said the devil would get him because of women.

He did touch on women a bit, but his body was aching with fever and he talked about the Whore of Babylon.

Don’t you remember how he saw a flea land on Bardolph’s nose and said it was a black soul burning in hell?

Well, the fuel that sustained that fire is gone. That’s all the wealth I ever earned in his company.

Shall we get moving? The king will already have left Southampton.

Come, let’s be on our way. My love, let me kiss your lips. Look after my goods and possessions. Keep on your toes: the rule is “cash down, no credit.” Trust no one. For oaths are as easily broken as straws, and men’s faith crumbles like crackers, and you can only rely on what you can hold onto. Let caution be your guide. Go dry your eyes. Brothers in arms, we’re off to France—like leeches, my boys: to suck, to suck, their very blood to suck!

I’ve heard that’s not the most nourishing food.

Kiss her soft mouth, and we’ll be off.

Farewell, hostess. (kisses her)

I can’t kiss—that’s just how it is—but farewell.

Be thrifty. And keep yourself hidden, I command you.

Farewell. Adieu.

The English army is advancing on us at full strength. It is more important that we respond majestically than that we respond carefully. Therefore the dukes of Berri, Bretagne, Brabant, and Orléans shall advance, and you, Prince Dauphin, will swiftly entrench and fortify our fortress towns with men of courage and the means to defend themselves. The king of England’s approach is as forceful as a whirlpool. It is right for us to prepare like people who are afraid, as we’ve been taught by the recent lessons given us by the deadly and underestimated English on our own soil.

My most feared father, it is certainly appropriate for us to arm ourselves against the enemy, because even in peace time, when no war or conflict is at hand, a kingdom should not lose its edge, but always be ready—with defenses, men, and training—as though it expected a war. Therefore, I agree that we should all go and inspect those French territories that are weak. Let’s do it with no show of anxiety—no, with no more fear than if we’d heard that the English were busying themselves with folk dancing. Because, my good king, England is so poorly led, her scepter so foolishly borne by a vain, silly, shallow, impulsive youth, that she’s hardly a threat.

Oh, please, Prince Dauphin! You are completely wrong about this king. Talk to the ambassadors who’ve just come back: ask them how majestically he responded to their message, how well supplied he was with good advisors, how restrained in expressing his displeasure, and, moreover, how terrifyingly firm he was in his resolve. You’ll discover that his youthful follies were like the persona that Lucius Junius Brutus adopted to deceive Tarquin—cloaking wisdom in folly the way gardeners cover the most delicate roots with manure when they first sprout up.

Well, you’re wrong, my Lord High Constable. But even if I thought you were right, it doesn’t matter. When it comes to defense, it’s best to assume that the enemy is more powerful than he seems. That way, we fill the gaps in our defenses. Otherwise, if we do it on the cheap, we’ll be like the miser who spoils his new coat by not buying quite enough cloth to make it.

I think King Harry is strong, so the rest of you princes make sure to arm yourselves to meet him with strength. His ancestors got their first taste of blood in battle with us, and he is born of that warlike strain that haunted us on our home ground. Reflect on the battle of Crécy, where, to our everlasting shame, all our princes were taken prisoner by the Prince of Wales, he whom they called Edward the Black Prince. Remember how his mountain-bred father, standing high on a mountain, crowned by the golden sun, observed his heroic son and smiled to see him mangle the work of nature, French youth whose fathers and God had nurtured for twenty years, since they were babies. This king is a branch of that same victorious stock. So let us be wary both of his inborn might and of his destiny.

Ambassadors of Harry, king of England, request a hearing with your Majesty.

We’ll see them immediately. Bring them right in.

Notice, my friends, how closely this hunter follows his prey.

Turn and face them and you’ll stop the pursuit. The cowardly pack barks loudest when the quarry is way out front. My good King, surprise the English and let them know what kind of kingdom you rule over. Self-love, my liege, is not so great a sin as self-neglect.

From our brother monarch, the king of England?

Yes, from him. Thus he greets your Majesty. He commands you, in the name of God: give up. Relinquish the stolen titles that, by the gift of heaven and the laws of nature and of nations, belong to him and his heirs. That is, give up the crown and all the extensive titles that go with it, according to custom and long use. So that you’ll know this is no dubious or farfetched claim, he sends you his family tree, every line of which supports the claim. Look over this document, and when you see that he is directly descended from his most famous of famous ancestors, Edward the Third, he demands that you resign your crown and kingdom, which you wrongfully hold at the expense of himself, the true and natural owner.

And what will happen if I don’t?

Bloodshed will force you to. No matter how deeply you hid the crown, even if you hid it in your own hearts, he’d dig it up. That’s why he’s coming after you like a fierce storm, with thunder and earthquakes like Jove could stir up. So, if asking you for the crown doesn’t work, he will force you to give it to him. In the name of God, then, he asks that you deliver up the crown. He says to take pity on the poor souls whom this ravenous war will swallow up. The widows’ tears, the orphans’ cries, the dead men’s blood, the girls mourning for their husbands, the fathers and the men they might have married will all be your fault. This is his claim, his threat, and my message. If the Dauphin is here, I have a message for him, too.

I’ll think it over. Tomorrow, I’ll let you know what I’ve decided and what answer you should deliver to the king of England.

Regarding the Dauphin, you can speak to me. What’s the message from the English king?

Scorn and defiance, indifference, contempt, and any insult that wouldn’t disgrace the mighty sender—that’s the value he puts on you. And my king goes on: if your royal father does not sweeten the bitter insult you sent my king and grant all our demands, Henry’s artillery will give you so resounding an answer that the very caves and vaulted cathedrals of France shall echo your mocking of him back in your face.

Say this: if my father sends a friendly answer, it is against my will. I want nothing but conflict with England. To that end, I presented him with the tennis balls, the perfect expression of his inexperience and frivolity.

He’ll make your palace tremble for this insult, even if it were the mightiest in all of Europe. And, make no mistake, you’ll find, as we his subjects have, an amazing difference between the king as a young man and the way he is now. Now he uses his time wisely, as you will see by your own casualties, if he remains in France.

We’ll give you an answer tomorrow.

Don’t take too long, unless you want our king to come after me to ask what’s holding things up, because he’s already landed here.

You’ll have your answer soon. A night isn’t much time for addressing matters of this importance.

And so, on the wings of imagination and at the speed of thought, our scene flies swiftly on. Imagine that you have seen the well-equipped king at Dover pier set sail in full royal regalia and his noble fleet fan the rising sun with its silken banners. Give your imagination free rein. Picture the cabin boys climbing around the rigging. Hear the shrill whistle that brings order to the hubbub. Picture the linen sails driven by the invisible and subtle wind as they pull the vast hulls through the wrinkled sea, breasting the high waves. Pretend that you’re standing on the shore, watching a city dance on the shifting waves, and you’ll have an idea of the look of this majestic fleet as it holds a straight course for Harfleur. Follow it, follow it! Hitch your minds to this navy’s sterns and leave your England, silent as midnight, guarded by grandfathers, babies, and old women. For what male subject is there old enough for his chin to be graced with even one hair who doesn’t want to follow this select band of hand-picked knights to France? Once there, make your thoughts work harder, and witness a siege. Take in the wheeled canons with their deadly gaping mouths trained on the walled city of Harfleur. Imagine the French ambassador returning to inform Harry that the king offers him his daughter, Katherine, with some insignificant, unprofitable dukedoms as her dowry. The offer doesn’t go over well, and the nimble gunner now moves to ignite the devilish canon.

Down goes everything in their path. Indulge us further and supplement our performance with your own imaginings.

Attack the breach in the city wall once more, dear friends, attack it once more—or else let’s close it up with English corpses. In peacetime, nothing looks better in a man than restraint and humility. But when the battle trumpet blows in our ears, then it’s time to act like the tiger. With muscles taut and blood stirred up, hide your civilized nature under the guise of ugly rage. Lend your eyes a terrifying gleam and let them jut out from the portholes of the head like brass cannon. Make your brow jut out over your eyes like a frightening cliff over the wild and desolate ocean. Now grit your teeth and let your nostrils flare. Take a deep breath and draw on every impulse to its fullest strength. On, on, you noblest Englishmen, descended as you are from battle-tested fathers, fathers who, like so many Alexander the Greats, have fought in these regions from morning until night, sheathing their swords only when there was no one left to fight. Don’t dishonor your mothers! Prove that the men you call your fathers did truly conceive you. Serve as an example to men of common birth and teach them how to fight. And you, good farmers, whose limbs were made in England, show us here the vigor of your upbringing. Prove you are worthy of your birth, which I do not doubt for a moment. For there isn’t one of you so low-born that your eyes don’t shine with noble luster. I see you’re standing like greyhounds on a leash, straining for the moment when you’ll be let loose. The hunt is on! Follow your spirit, and as you charge cry, “God for Harry, England, and Saint George!”

On, on, on, on, on! To the breach, to the breach!

Please, corporal, stop! The fighting is too violent. Speaking for myself, I only have one life, not dozens. Too violent! That’s just how it is, the plain truth of it.

The plain truth doesn’t lie. You can see how it is all around.

(he sings)

Fighting comes and goes, God’s loyal servants drop and die.

And sword and shield

In bloody field

Will win immortal fame.

I wish I were in an alehouse in London! I would give all my glory for a mug of ale and safety.

Me too.

(he sings)

If wishes could avail me,

My purpose would not fail me,

It’s there that I would go.

(singing)

As surely but more poorly

Than birds sing on the bough.

Up to the breach, you dogs! Go! Get a move on, you scrotems!

Great Duke, be merciful to mortal men. Calm your rage, your manly rage! Calm your rage, great Duke! Dear man, calm your rage. Be lenient, dearest!

This is healthy talk. Your Honor’s is unhealthy talk.

Young though I am, I’ve been observing these three blowhards closely. I am “man”—which is to say, servant—to all three of them. Yet not one among them, if all three were to wait on me, could be my “man,” because three such fakes don’t amount to a man. Take Bardolph: he is cowardly and blustery. He acts tough, but he doesn’t fight. Pistol, meanwhile, has a lethal tongue but an inert sword. He destroys words but keeps his weapon in one piece. As for Nym, he’s heard men of valor are men of few words, so he refuses to pray lest he should be thought a coward. But he has as few good deeds as he has bad words—for he never cracked anyone’s head but his own, and that was against a post when he was drunk. They will steal anything and call it spoils. Bardolph stole a lute case, carried it for thirty-six miles, and sold it for a penny and a half. Nym and Bardolph are sworn brothers in crime, and in Calais they stole a fire shovel: I could see from that that they had no pride. They would like me to be as familiar with men’s pockets as their gloves and handkerchiefs, which goes against my manhood, because to take something from another’s pocket and put it into my own is plain stealing. I must leave them and seek some better employment. Their villainy nauseates me, and I must therefore vomit it up.

Captain Fluellen, you must come straight to the tunnels. The duke of Gloucester wants a word with you.

The tunnels! Tell the duke I’m not so keen to come to the tunnels. For the tunnels, see, are not strictly in accordance with the proper practice of war. They’re not deep enough. For the enemy, see—and you can explain this to the duke, see—has dug its own tunnels four yards below ours. By Jesus, I think they will blow up everything if we don’t improve our tactics.

The duke of Gloucester, who has command over the siege, is in consultation with an Irishman, a very valiant gentleman indeed.

It’s Captain Macmorris, right?

I think so.

Jesus, he’s an ass if there ever was one! I will say as much to his face. He knows no more about the proper practice of war, see—the ancient practices—than a puppy.

Here he comes with Captain Jamy, the Scots captain.

Captain Jamy is a wonderfully valorous gentleman, that’s certain, one with great learning and knowledge concerning ancient warfare, I happen to know from his maneuvers. By Jesus, he will defend his position on the practices of the ancient Roman wars as well as any military man in the world.

Good day to you, Captain Fluellen.

Good evening to your Worship, good Captain James.

Tell me, Captain Macmorris, have you left the tunnels? Have the excavators stopped work?

Christ, it’s a disaster. The work is stopped, the trumpet has sounded the retreat. I swear by this hand and my father’s soul, the whole thing is a disaster. It’s all stopped. I could have blown up the town in an hour. Oh, it’s a disaster, a disaster, by this hand, it’s a disaster.

Captain Macmorris, I beg your pardon, but would you grant me a discussion or two with you, see, partly touching on or concerning the practice of war, the Roman wars, for the sake of argument, see, and friendly conversation? Partly to confirm my opinion and partly for the satisfaction, see, of my mind, with respect to the demands of proper military practice—that’s the point?

Oh, this is fine, good captains. And I’ll answer you, if I may, when I get a chance. Indeed I will.

This is no time to have a discussion. Christ! The day is hot and between the weather and the wars and the king and the dukes, it’s no time for a discussion. The town is besieged, and the trumpet calls us to the gap, and we talk and do nothing, by Christ. It’s a disgrace to us all. God save me, it’s a disgrace, by this hand, when there are throats to be cut and work to be done, and nothing gets done, Christ save me.

I swear by the mass, before I close my eyes to go to sleep, I’ll put in some good fighting, or I’ll lie in the ground dead. And I’ll kill as valiantly as I can, that’s for sure. That is the long and the short of it. But truly, I would love to hear the two of you discuss warfare.

Captain Macmorris, I think, see—correct me if I’m wrong—there are not many of your nation—

My nation? What is my nation? It’s a villain and a bastard and a coward and a rascal. What is my nation? Who talks of my nation?

Captain Macmorris, if you take my words in some way other than how they were meant, see, I’ll have to think you’re not treating me with the good will you ought to, see, since I am as good a man as yourself, both in the practice of war and in my country of origin and in other respects.

I do not know that you are as good a man as myself. So, by Christ, I’ll cut off your head.

Now, now, both of you gentlemen! You go out of your way to misunderstand each other.

Yes, and that’s a serious failing.

The town is asking for a pause in the fighting for negotiation.

Captain Macmorris, when we have more leisure, see, I will be so bold as to show you I know about the practice of warfare, and that’s that.

What has the governor of the town decided? This is the final discussion I will grant. So submit to my mercy or, like men who revel in their own destruction, challenge me to do my worst. For, as I am a soldier, the name I think suits me best, once I begin my attack on Harfleur again, I will not leave the half-conquered town until she lies buried in her own ashes. The gates of mercy will be closed by then, and harsh and hard-hearted soldiers, who have tasted blood, will have free reign to commit whatever violence they want, mowing down your lovely young virgins and budding infants. What will it matter to me, since you will have brought it on yourselves, if sacrilegious war, dressed in red like Satan, his face blackened by smoke, should commit every form of savage destruction and ruin? What will it matter to me if your innocent maidens are raped, since you will have asked for it? What power can rein in promiscuous evil once it’s gotten rolling? We might as well send orders to the whale to come ashore as try to restore order in soldiers carried away with their looting. Therefore, you men of Harfleur, take pity on your town and on your people while I still have control over my men, while the cool and moderate winds of mercy still have power to disperse the depraved, infected clouds of murder, plunder, and crazed soldiers defile your shrieking daughters with their foul hands, and your fathers dragged by their silver beards, their reverend heads dashed against the walls. Expect to see your naked babies skewered upon pikes while their grief-crazed mothers tear the clouds with their loud cries, just as the women of Judea did when Herod slaughtered their infants. What do you say? Will you surrender and avoid all this or be called to account for the destruction of this town?

Today our hopes are at an end. The Dauphin, whom we asked for reinforcements, sends back the answer that he’s not yet in a position to raise so great an army. Therefore, great king, we surrender our town and lives to your kind mercy. Enter our gates and do as you like with us and our possessions, for we cannot defend ourselves any longer.

Open your gates.

Come, uncle Exeter, enter Harfleur. Stay there and fortify it well against the French. Deal with them all mercifully on my behalf, dear uncle. Meanwhile, with winter coming on and sickness growing among our troops, we’ll withdraw to Calais. Tonight in Harfleur we will be your guest; tomorrow we’ll march on.

(speaking in French, for the entire scene) Alice, you have been to England and you know the language.

(speaking in French, for the entire scene) A little, madam.

Please teach me English. I must learn to speak it. What is the word for la main in English?

La main? That is “de hand.”

“De hand.” And les doigts?

Les doigts? Good lord, I forget les doigts. But it will come to me. The word for les doigts, I believe, is “de fangres.” Yes, “de fangres.”

La main, “de hand”; les doigts, “de fangres.” I think I am a very apt student! I have learned two words of English already. What is the word for les ongles?

“Les ongles?” That is “de nails.”

“De nails.” Listen! Tell me if I’m saying it right. De hand, de fangres, et de nails.“

Well done, madam. Excellent English.

Tell me the English for le bras.

”De arm,“ madam.

And le coud?

”D’elbow.“

”D’elbow.“ Let me practice all the words you’ve taught me so far.

It’s too difficult, I think, madam.

I beg to differ, Alice. Listen: ”de hand, de fangres, de nails, d’arma, de bilbow.“

”D’elbow,“ madam.

Oh, Lord, I forgot! ”D’elbow.“ What is the word for le col?

”De neck,“ madam.

”De nick.“ And le menton?

”De chin.“

Le col, ”de nick“; le menton, ”de sin.“

Yes. If I may say so, your Highness pronounces the words just like a native English speaker.

I have no doubt I’ll learn it, and in a short time, too—God willing.

You haven’t forgotten what you just learned?

No, I’ll recite it for you right now: ”de hand, de fangres, de nails—“

”De nails,“ madame.

”De nails, de arme, de ilbow.“

Forgive me, de elbow.

That’s what I said, ”de elbow, de nick, et de sin.“ What are the words for le pied and la robe?

”De foot,“ madame, and ”de count.“

”De foot“ and ”de count“! Oh, Lord, those are vulgar words—wicked, ugly, immodest, not fitting for respectable girls to speak. I would not utter those words in the presence of the lords of France for all the world. Ugh! ”Le foot“ and ”le count“! Nevertheless, I will recite my lesson one more time all together: ”de hand, de fangres, de nails, de arm, de elbow, de nick, de sin, de foot, de coun.“

That is excellent, madame!

That’s enough for one lesson. Let’s go to lunch.

He’s certainly crossed the river Somme.

And if he advances unopposed, my lord, let us abandon France. Let us leave everything and give our vineyards to the barbarous nation.

God alive! Shall a few offshoots of our nation, born of our father’s lust—our branches grafted to wild and savage trunks—grow to such a height that they look down with contempt on the plants from which they first sprang?

Normans, nothing more than bastard Normans, Norman bastards! I hope I die! If they march along unopposed, I will sell my dukedom for a sodden, filthy farm in that craggy isle of Albion.

God of battles! Where do they get this spirit? Isn’t their climate foggy, cold, and dark? Doesn’t the sun shine palely down on them, as though in contempt, killing their fruit with frowns? Can boiled water (beer, they call it)—a drink for broken-down horses, heat their cold blood to such a valiant level? And shall our lively blood, quickened by wine, be so frosty? Oh, for the honor of our land, let us not hang like ropes of icicles off the thatched roofs of our houses while men of a more frosty temperament sweat off their own gallant youth in our rich fields! Our fields may be rich, but they are ruled poorly.

By faith and honor, our wives mock us, telling us brazenly that our vigor has been so bred out of us that they plan to give their bodies to the lusty youth of England to resupply France with men who, though bastards, will at least be warriors.

They tell us we’d be better off in English dancing schools, where we could teach the latest dances, as our grace is all in our heels; we are no better than high-class deserters.

Where is Montjoy, the herald? Send him on his way quickly. Tell him to greet the king of England with our sharp defiance. Rise, princes, and, with a spirit of honor more sharply edged than your swords, rush to the battlefield: Charles Delabreth, High Constable of France; you dukes of Orléans, Bourbon, Berri, Alençon, Brabant, Bar, and Burgundy; Jaques Chatillon, Rambures, Vaudemont, Beaumont, Grandpré, Roussi, and Fauconberg, Foix, Lestrale, Bouciqualt, and Charolois. High dukes, great princes, barons, lords and knights—for the sake of the great positions you hold, rid yourselves of this great shame. Stop Harry of England, who is now sweeping through our land with banners drenched in the French blood he spilled at Harfleur. Rush on his army the way the melting snow of the Alps spits on the low valleys below them. Descend on him: you have power enough. And bring him into Rouen as our prisoner.

Now that’s a mission worthy of great men! I’m only sorry that his numbers are so few and those men he has sick and starving on the march. When he sees our army, I’m sure his heart will sink with fear and he’ll offer us a large sum in exchange for avoiding battleof.

Have Montjoy hurry, then, Lord Constable, and have him ask the king of England what he is willing to pay us to get out of the war. Prince Dauphin, you’ll stay with me in Rouen.

No, please, I beg your Majesty.

Be patient, because you’re staying with me. Go now, Lord Constable and all you princes, and quickly bring us news of England’s defeat.

Greetings, Captain Fluellen! Have you just come from the bridge?

I assure you, there are some excellent military operations being carried out at the bridge.

Is the duke of Exeter safe?

The duke of Exeter is as courageous as Agamemnonand a man whom I love and honor deeply, with my soul, and my heart, and my duty, and my life, and my livelihood, to the very utmost of my being. He is not—God be praised and blessed—hurt in any way but is holding the bridge most valiantly, with excellent discipline. There is a standard-bearer there at the bridge. I truly think he is as valiant a man as Mark Antony. He is a man of no rank or consequence, but I saw him fight as gallantly as though he were.

What is his name?

He is called Ensign Pistol.

I don’t know him.

Here he is.

Captain, I have a favor to beg of you. You’re on very good terms with the duke of Exeter.

Yes, God be praised, I have managed to earn his favor.

Bardolph, a soldier who is loyal and stout-hearted and full of valour, has, by a cruel trick of fate and a turn of silly Fortune’s wildly spinning wheel, that blind goddess who stands upon an ever-rolling stone—

Now, now, Ensign Pistol. Fortune is depicted as blind, with a scarf over her eyes, to signify that she is blind. And she is depicted with a wheel to signify—this is the point—that she is turning and inconstant, and all about change and variation. And her foot, see, is planted on a spherical stone that rolls and rolls and rolls. Truly, artists do wonderful things with the image of Fortune. She provides an excellent moral.

Fortune is Bardolph’s enemy. She frowns on him, for he has stolen a pax from a church and he must be hanged. A damnable death! It’s fine for dogs to be hung, but men should go free and not have their windpipes strangled with hemp. But Exeter has pronounced a death sentence—and for a cheap little pax. Therefore, go and speak for him! The duke will listen to you. Don’t let Bardolph’s life be brought to an end by a length of cheap rope and with this shame. Save his life, Captain, and I will repay you.

Ensign Pistol, I think I understand you.

I’m glad to hear it.

Actually, you shouldn’t be, because, see, even if he were my own brother I’d want the duke to stick to his plan and have Bardolph executed. Discipline must be kept.

Then die and be damned! And I’m giving the finger to your friendship!

Very well.

And the Spanish finger to you!

Very good.

Why, that man is a total fraud and rascal. I remember him now. A pimp, a pickpocket.

At the bridge he spoke as excellently as anyone I’ve ever heard, I promise you. But that’s alright. What he just said to me—it’s alright. I assure you, when the time comes—

Why, he’s a fool, an idiot, a moron, a man who now and then joins the army so as to be able to give himself airs when he gets back to London and masquerades as a soldier. Such fellows have memorized the names of famous commanders, and they can tell you—having learned such things by rote, not by experience—where this or that battle was fought, at such and such fort, at such and such wall, with such and such protective escort. And they can say who fought well, who was shot, who was disgraced, what terms the enemy insisted on. And they study how to express these things in proper military jargon, which they embellish with fashionable oaths. And what a beard trimmed like the general’s or a rough uniform will do among foaming mugs and brains washed with ale, you wouldn’t believe. But you must learn to recognize such liars, or you will be greatly taken advantage of.

I tell you what, Captain Gower; I perceive that he is not the man that he would have the world think he is. If I find an opportunity, I will give him a piece of my mind.

Listen. The king is coming, and I must speak with him about what went on at the bridge.—God bless your Majesty!

Tell me, Fluellen: did you just come from the bridge?

Yes, your Majesty. The duke of Exeter has held the bridge very gallantly. The French have retreated, see, and there were great acts of courage. Indeed, the enemy nearly took the bridge, but he was forced to retreat, and the duke of Exeter holds the bridge. I can tell your Majesty, the duke is a brave man.

What men have you lost, Fluellen?

The enemy’s losses have been very great, pretty substantial. To tell the truth, though, I think the duke hasn’t lost a single man, except for one who will probably be executed for robbing a church, one Bardolph—I don’t know if your Majesty knows the man. His face is all pustules and pockmarks, and pimples and inflammation, and his lips blow up toward his nose, which is like a red-hot coal, sometimes blue, sometimes red. But his nose is dead, and the fire’s put out.

I want all such offenders to be dealt with that way, and I give precise orders that in our progress through the country there shall be nothing seized from the villages, nothing taken that is not paid for, none of the French harassed or abused in disrespectful language. For when mercy and cruelty compete for a kingdom, the gentler player is bound to win.

You know from my clothing who I am.

Well then, I know who you are. What do you have to tell me?

My master’s decision.

Go ahead.

My king says this: “Tell Harry of England: though we appeared dead, we were only asleep. Strategy makes a better soldier than haste. Tell him we could have driven him back at Harfleur but thought it unwise to burst a pustule before it had fully ripened. Now the time is right for us to speak, and we do so with imperial authority. The king of England will regret his foolishness, discover his weakness, and marvel at our restraint. Tell him therefore to consider what ransom he can offer as a prisoner of war. It must be commensurate with the losses we have suffered, the subjects we have lost, and the indignity we have endured, for which he is too insignificant to sufficiently pay us back. His coffers are too poor to atone for our losses, his entire kingdom too small to account for the amount of blood we’ve shed, and the sight of him kneeling at our feet an empty satisfaction compared to the indignity we have put up with. Add defiance to all this and, by way of conclusion, tell him that he has betrayed the men who follow him, whose death sentence has been pronounced.” My king and master’s message delivered, my task is done.

What is your name? I know your position.

Montjoy.

You do your job well. Go back and tell your king I do not seek an encounter with him now but would be willing to march on to Calais without interference, for—to be honest, though it’s probably unwise to confess this to a powerful enemy who has the advantage—my men are considerably weakened by illness, my numbers reduced, and those few men I have almost no better than so many Frenchmen, though when they were in good form, I tell you, herald, I thought three Frenchmen walked on every pair of English legs. But God forgive me for bragging. It’s a vice I’ve picked up since I’ve been here, and I must get rid of it. Anyway, go tell your master I am here. My ransom is my own fragile, worthless body, my army but a weak and sickly escort. But, before God, tell him we will advance, even if the king of France himself and another foe as strong should stand in our way. (giving him money) That’s for your trouble, Montjoy. Go tell your master to consider carefully. If we’re allowed to pass, we will. If we’re prevented, we’ll discolor your golden ground with your red blood. And so, Montjoy, farewell. This is our whole answer: We do not seek a battle nor will we avoid one. Tell your master this.

I’ll deliver the message. I thank your Highness.

I hope they don’t attack us now.

We’re in God’s hands, brother, not in theirs. March to the bridge. Night is approaching. We’ll set up camp across the river and continue on tomorrow. Give the order to march.

Nonsense. I have the best armor in the world. I wish it were day!

You have wonderful armor, but give my horse his due.

It is the best horse in Europe.

Will it never be morning?

My lord of Orléans, and my lord high Constable, are you talking about horses and armor?

You are as well provided in both respects as any prince in the world.

What a long night this is! I will not trade my horse for any that walks on four legs. He leaps from the ground as if his insides were light as hairs. He’s a flying horse, a Pegasus, breathing fire out of his nostrils. When I sit astride him, I soar, I am a hawk. He trots on air. The earth sings when he touches it. The lowest part of his hoof is more musical than Pan’s pipe.

He’s the color of nutmeg.

And hot as ginger. He is an animal worthy of Perseus. He is pure air and fire. The duller elements of earth and water have no part in him, except in the moment of patient stillness when his rider mounts him. He is indeed worthy of the name “horse,” and you can call all the rest beasts.

Indeed, my lord, he is a perfectly wonderful horse.

He is the prince of horses. His neigh is like a monarch’s command. His face demands respect.

Enough, cousin.

No, the man who cannot extol the virtues of my horse from dawn to dusk is not particularly clever. It’s a subject as worthy of endless discussion as the changing sea. If each grain of sand had a tongue to eulogize, my horse would be a topic for them all. He is a subject for a king to contemplate, and for a king’s king to ride on, and for the world at large—both friend and stranger—to stop whatever they are doing and marvel at. I once wrote a sonnet in his praise which began, “Wonder of nature—”

I have heard a sonnet to one’s mistress that began like that.

Then the writer imitated the one I composed to my steed, for my horse is my mistress.

Your mistress is a good mount.

A good mount for me—and that’s the highest praise and very definition of a good mistress, that she belong to one alone.

Yes, but yesterday I could have sworn your mistress gave you a bumpy ride.

So, perhaps, did yours.

Mine wasn’t wearing a bridle.

Oh, then I guess she was old and gentle, and you rode barelegged, like an Irish yokel.

You’re a good judge of horsemanship.

Take a tip from me, then. Those who don’t take care when they ride often find themselves thrown into a messy situation. I’d rather have my horse than a mistress.

I’d prefer to keep my mistress rather than some lame horse.

I’ll tell you this, Constable, my mistress has his own hair.

I could make the same boast even if I had a pig as my mistress.

“The dog returns to its own vomit, and the newly washed sow to its mud puddle.” You’d take anything for a mistress.

At least I don’t have a horse for my mistress—or a saying so beside the point.

My Lord Constable, are those stars or suns I saw on the armor in your tent tonight?

Stars, my lord.

I hope some will fall off tomorrow.

And yet I’ll still have plenty.

No doubt, for you wear too many in the first place, and it might be more seemly to make do with fewer.

Yes, like your horse, who, staggering under your boasts, would trot more easily if some of them dismounted.

I only wish I could load him up with all the praise he deserves! Oh, will it never be day? I will ride out a mile tomorrow and leave the road paved with the faces of dead Englishmen.

I’d say the same thing, but I’m afraid I’d be faced out of my way. But I do wish it were morning, for I long to be mixing it up with the English.

Would anyone like to bet twenty prisoners with me?

You’ll have to take some chances yourself before you catch them.

It’s midnight. I’ll go put my armor on.

The Dauphin really wants it to be morning.

He wants to eat the English.

I think he’ll eat everyone he kills.

By my mistress’ white hand, he’s a gallant prince.

Swear by her foot, so she can stamp out the oath.

He’s definitely the most active gentleman of France.

Performing is activity, and he is always doing that.

He never did harm that I heard of.

And he’s not going to do any tomorrow. That part of his reputation will stand.

I know him to be valiant.

I was told that by one who knows him better than you.

Who was that?

Why, he told me so himself, and he said he didn’t care who knew it.

He doesn’t have to care. His virtue is not hidden.

Oh, but it is, sir. No one but his valet ever saw it. His courage is hidden, and when it is revealed, it will shrink.

Ill will never prompted anything well said.

I’ll challenge that proverb with one of my own: “There is flattery in friendship.”

And I’ll match that with “Give the devil his due.”

Very apt! Your friend is equated with the devil. I’ll go straight for that proverb with “To hell with the devil.”

You are better at proverbs than I am by as much as “A fool shoots quickly and overshoots his mark.”

You have overshot.

I’ve outshot you, and not for the first time.

My Lord High Constable, the English lie within fifteen hundred paces of your tents.

Who measured the ground?

The Lord Grandpré.

A very valiant and knowledgeable gentleman. If only it were day! Poor Harry of England! He doesn’t long for the dawn as we do.

What a miserable and obstinate fellow this king of England is, to blunder with his fat-headed followers so far beyond his capacity.

If the English had any sense, they would run away.

Well, obviously they don’t. If there were anything inside their heads, they could never wear such heavy helmets.

That island of England breeds very valiant creatures. Their hounds are unequaled in courage.

Foolish dogs, blindly running straight toward a Russian bear only to have their heads crushed like rotten apples. You might just as well say, “That’s a valiant flea that dares to eat its breakfast on the lip of a lion.”

Yes, exactly. And the men resemble their English hounds in their loud, showy ferocity, too, leaving their brains behind with their wives. Give them hefty meals of beef and iron and steel, and they will eat like wolves and fight like devils.

Yes, but these English are seriously short of beef.

Then tomorrow we’ll find that they feel only like eating, not like fighting. It’s time to put our armor on. Shall we get started?

It’s two o’clock now. But let me see, by ten we shall each have captured a hundred Englishmen.

Now summon up the image of stealthy murmurs and engulfing darkness filling the wide vessel of the universe. From camp to camp through the dark cave of night, the noise from both armies grows so quiet that those standing watch almost think they can hear the whispered secrets of one another’s sentinels. One by one, fires are lit on both sides, and through their pale flames, each army thinks he sees the smoke-tinged faces of the other. The horses of each army answer one another’s proud, threatening neighs as they pierce the dull night, and from the tents the sound of the blacksmiths’ hammers as they fit out the knights, closing rivets up, adds a note of fear to the preparations. The country cocks crow and the clocks toll, sounding a drowsy three o’clock in the morning. Proud of their army and secure in their numbers, the confident and overeager French play dice, betting on how many worthless Englishmen each will capture. They scold the limping, slowly moving night, which, like an ugly old woman, takes so long to pass. The poor doomed English, like sacrificial beasts, sit patiently, and privately contemplate the dangers that will arrive with morning. With their grave faces, emaciated cheeks, and war-torn coats, they seem to the gazing moon like so many horrifying ghosts. Now, whoever spots the royal captain of this ruined army walking from camp to camp, from tent to tent, let him cry “Praise and glory on his head!” For out he goes visiting all his troops. He bids them good morning with a modest smile and calls them brothers, friends, and countrymen. There is no indication of the mighty army that surrounds them in his expression, nor has the long, sleepless night robbed his face of an ounce of color. Instead, he looks fresh and covers any signs of fatigue with a show of cheerfulness and sweet majesty that every sad and pale wretch takes comfort in when they see him. His generous eye notices everyone, doling out a bounty as far-reaching as the sun, thawing cold fear, so that low and well-born alike may all experience (for want of a better way of putting it) a little touch of Harry in the night. With that, our scene rushes on toward the battle, which we will represent with four or five worn-out fencing foils, a travesty of battle—forgive us!—that disgraces the name of Agincourt. Still, stay to watch, imagining the way it really was from our own inadequate imitation.

Gloucester, it’s true that we are in great danger. But our courage should only be the greater for that. Good morning, brother Bedford. God Almighty, there must be some essential goodness even in evil, if men would only look for it. In our case, our bad neighbors over their make us early risers, a healthy and sensible thing to be. Besides, they act as outward consciences and preachers to us all, a visible reminder that we should prepare ourselves for death. Think like that, and you’ll manage to get honey out of a common weed and find a moral lesson in the devil himself.

Good morning, old Sir Thomas Erpingham! A nice, soft pillow would be a more suitable place to lay that good white head than France’s hard, cold ground.

Not at all, my liege. I prefer these quarters, since they allow me to say, “Now I live like a king.”

It’s good for men to be given an example of how to take pleasure in discomfort. It eases the spirit. And when the mind is engaged, the rest of the body, dead and dull before, wakes up and comes to life with a new nimbleness and sensitivity, like a snake shedding its dead skin. Lend me your cloak, Sir Thomas. Brothers, give my regards to the princes in our camp. Say good day to them from me and ask them to come to my tent.

We shall, my liege.

Shall I accompany your Grace?

No, my good knight. Go with my brothers to my English peers. I need to be alone with my thoughts for a while and don’t want any company.

The Lord in heaven bless you, noble Harry!

Bless you, old soul! Your words cheer my heart.

(speaking in French) Who goes there?

A friend.

Declare yourself to me. Are you an officer? Or are you low, vulgar, and of the common people?

I am a gentleman of a company.

Do you carry a pike?

Exactly. What about you?

I’m as good a gentleman as the emperor.

Then you’re a better man than the king.

The king’s a dear boy with a heart of gold, he’s a lively lad, a wag, born of fine parents, good with his fists. I kiss his dirty shoe, and from the bottom of my heart I love the lovely boy. What is your name?

Harry le Roy.

Le Roy? That’s a Cornish name. Are you with a Cornish company?

No, I am a Welshman.

Do you know Fluellen?

Yes.

Tell him I’ll take the leek out of his hat on Saint Davy’s Day and slap his head with it.

You’d better not wear your dagger in your cap that day, or he might slap your head with it.

Are you his friend?

Yes, and his relative, too.

Then I’m giving you the finger.

Thank you. God be with you.

My name is Pistol.

The name suits your fierceness.

Captain Fluellen!

In the name of Jesus Christ, keep it down! It never ceases to amaze me the way people ignore the correct, traditional principles and rules of war. If you would take the trouble to study the tactics of Pompey the Great, I can tell you that you would find no tittle-tattle or pibble-pabble in Pompey’s camp. I tell you, you would find the rituals of war and, I promise you, its ceremonies and its solicitudes and its forms and its gravity and its discipline all to be quite counter to all this noise.

But the enemy is loud. You can hear them all night long.

And if the enemy is an ass and a fool and a prating idiot, does that mean, you think, that we should also be an ass and a fool and a prating idiot? Think about it.

I will lower my voice.

I’d be very glad if you would.

Though he seems a little old-fashioned, there is much care and courage in this Welshman.

Brother John Bates, isn’t that dawn breaking over there?

I think it is. But we have no great reason to long for day.

That’s the beginning of the day we see, but I don’t think we’ll see the end of it.—Who goes there?

A friend.

What captain do you serve?

Sir Thomas Erpingham.

A veteran commander and a very kind gentleman. Tell me, what does he think of our situation?

We’re men beached on the sand, hoping to be washed out by the next tide.

He hasn’t told this to the king, has he?

No, nor would it be right for him to. Though it’s not my place to say so, I think the king is, after all, only a man, the same as me. The violet smells to him the same as it does to me. The sky appears to him much as it does to me, and all his senses are those of a mortal man. Without his fine clothes, the king appears just like any other naked man. And though his feelings may be pitched higher than ours, when they plummet, they plummet that much farther. Therefore, when he has reason to fear, as we do, his fears are without question of the same order. Still, it stands to reason that he mustn’t betray his fear, as it might dishearten his army.

He can act as brave as he wants, but I believe on a cold night like this he wishes he were neck-deep in the Thames, and I wish he were, too, and I with him, whatever the danger, so long as we were far away from here.

I’ll tell you truly what I think about the king in my heart. I don’t think he wants to be anywhere but where he is.

Then I wish he were here alone. He’d be sure to be ransomed, and many a poor man’s life saved.

Oh, I’m sure you don’t dislike him so much as to wish he were here alone, even though you say this to find out how the rest of us feel. I don’t think there’s anywhere I’d rather die than in the king’s company, as his cause is just and honorable.

That’s more than we know.

Yes, and more than we should seek to know. It’s enough that we know we’re the king’s subjects. If his cause is wrong, our obedience to the king clears us of responsibility for it.

But if the cause is not just, the king himself will have a lot to answer for, when all those legs and arms and heads chopped off in battle shall join together on Judgment Day crying, “We died at such and such a place.” Some will be swearing, some crying for a surgeon, some for the wives that are destitute without them, some about the debts they owed, some for their children left unprovided for. I think few die well who die in battle. How can a person expect to resolve anything in a Christian manner when they’ve passed their lives killing? Now, if these men don’t die in a state of grace, it will be a heavy charge against the king who led them into battle, whom they, as his subjects, could not disobey.

The king isn’t responsible for the particular end each soldier comes to, nor is the father responsible for his son’s final end or the master for his servant’s. The father and the master and the king didn’t order their subordinates’ deaths when they ordered their services. Besides, there’s no king, however pure his cause, who, if it comes to a trial by combat, can rely on using completely blameless soldiers. Perhaps some may be guilty of plotting murder, some of seducing maidens with lies and then abandoning them; some, of looting and stealing before they were even hired as soldiers. Even if these men have escaped the law and punishment at home, they cannot escape God. War is God’s agent of justice. War is vengeance. So there are men here who have broken the king’s law earlier and are punished now in his war. When they feared death, they escaped with their lives; and now where they imagine they’re safe, they perish. So, if they die unprepared, the king is no more guilty of their damnation than he was guilty of the earlier crimes they’re finally being punished for. Every subject’s duty is the king’s, but every subject’s soul is his own. Therefore, every soldier should do as any man who is sick in his bed would do: clear his conscience of any stain. Then if he dies, his death serves him. Or, if he doesn’t die, the time he spent preparing himself was at least blessed. And in the case of the man who survives, one could be forgiven for supposing that God spared him exactly because he was so ready to die; now he can live to appreciate God’s greatness and teach others to prepare.By this reasoning, if a son is sent by his father on business and drowns at sea while still in a state of sin, his wickedness is his father’s fault. Or if a servant, carrying a sum of money for his master, is attacked by robbers and dies without confessing his sins, we can say that the master’s business is to blame for the servant’s damnation. But that isn’t so.

It’s clear, every man must take responsibility for the manner of his own death. The king is not responsible for it.

I don’t expect him to answer for me, and yet I’m determined to fight vigorously for him.

I myself heard the king say he would not be ransomed.

Sure, he said so to make us fight cheerfully. But when our throats are cut, he could be ransomed without our being any the wiser.

If I live to see it, I’ll never trust his word again.

Yeah, right, go get him. That’s a lame threat from a toy gun, a poor individual’s private displeasure with a monarch. You may as well try to turn the sun to ice by fanning its face with a peacock feather. You’ll “never trust his word again.” Come on, that was a stupid thing to say.

Your scolding is somewhat overblown. I’d be angry with you if the occasion allowed.

Let it be a quarrel between us, if you live.

I’m game.

How will I recognize you in the future?

Give me some trinket of yours, and I will wear it in my hat. Then, if you dare to acknowledge it, I’ll take up my quarrel with you.

Here’s my glove; give me one of yours.

Here.

I’ll also wear this in my cap. If you come to me after tomorrow and say, “That’s my glove,” I swear by this hand, I will take it and give you a box on the ear.

If I ever see it, I will challenge you.

You may as well undertake to be hanged.

I’ll do it even if I find you in the company of the king himself.

Keep your word. Farewell.

Be friends, you English fools, be friends: we have enough enemies on the French side, if either of you could count.

Indeed, the French can bet twenty French crowns to one that they’ll beat us, they have such an army. But it’s no treason for an Englishman to cut off a French crown—a head, I mean—and tomorrow the king himself will do some snipping.

Upon the king! “Let’s lay everything upon the king: our lives, our souls, our debts, our anxious wives, our children, and our sins.” I must bear responsibility for all of it. What a painful condition responsibility is. It goes along with being born to greatness, but it makes you get badmouthed by every fool who only has his own suffering to care about. What infinite peace do king’s give up that private men enjoy? What do kings have that private men do not, besides the pomp of their position? And what is this useless ceremony of kings? What kind of god is ceremony, which suffers more than its worshippers do? What income, what profit does it bring in? Oh, ceremony, only show me your value! Why are you adored? Do you amount to anything besides position, status, and ritual, which inspire awe and fear in others? You’re less happy, being feared, than they are in fearing you. What do you get to drink, instead of sweet obedience, but poisonous flattery? Try being sick, great greatness, and see if ceremony can cure you! Do you think fiery fever can be put out by the windy puff of titles? Will it be chased away by bowing and scraping? You can command a beggar to bow on bended knee, but can you take possession of his health? No, vain illusion, so intricately bound up with a king’s rest. I who understand you, gorgeous ceremony, because I’m a king and I know that neither the balm, the scepter, and the ball, the robe layered in gold and pearls, the fancy title that precedes the king, the throne he sits on, nor the tide of pomp that beats upon the high shore of this world —not all of these put together, not all of these laid down at night in an imperial bed, can cause the king to rest so soundly as does the miserable wretch who turns in at night with a full stomach and an empty mind, fed on the bread of his daily struggle. He never wakes to horrifying darkness, born of hell, but sweats in the hot sun from dawn to

dusk and all night long sleeps in peace. Come morning, he wakes and helps the sun into his chariot and so wears out the ever-rolling years until his death. Apart from ceremony, this poor creature who spends his days in toil and his nights in sleep is better off than the king. The peasant enjoys his country’s peace without ever worrying his dull head about the vigil the king must keep to maintain that peace.

My lord, your noble subjects are looking for you all over the camp. They’re anxious to see you.

Good old knight, gather them all together at my tent. I’ll meet you there.

Consider it done, my lord.

Oh God of battles, bolster my soldiers’ courage. Don’t let them know fear. Rob them of the ability to count before the numbers against them overwhelm their courage. And just for today, Oh, Lord, just today don’t think of the crime my father committed in seizing the crown! I’ve transferred Richard’s body to a new grave and on it poured more tears of remorse than it has shed drops of blood. I’ve hired five hundred almsmen to hold up their withered hands to heaven, praying for my pardon twice a day throughout the year. And I’ve built two chapels where solemn priests sing continually for Richard’s soul. I will do more, though nothing I can do is any good since this remorse comes after the crime, asking for pardon.

My liege.

My brother Gloucester’s voice? Yes, I know why you’ve come. I’ll go with you. The day, my friends, and everything await me.

The sun glints off our armor. Awake, my lords!

Mount up our horses! Bring my horse, lackey! Ha!

Oh, brave spirit!

He’ll take me through flood and field.

Is that all? How about air and fire?

Just the heavens, cousin OrlÉans.

Is it time, my Lord Constable?

Listen to our horses neighing, longing to be working.

Mount them and dig your spurs into their flanks so that their hot blood may spurt in English eyes and douse them with some of the spare courage we have around. Ha!

What, you want them to weep our horses’ blood? Then how will we see their own natural tears?

The English are in the field, French lords.

To our horses, you gallant princes. Let’s mount straight away. All we have to do is look at that poor starving army, and our wonderful display of strength will eat away their souls, leaving them the mere husk of men. There isn’t enough work out there to keep us all busy, and hardly enough blood in all their sickly veins put together to put a stain on each of our swords, which our French knights will take out and then put away again, with nothing to do. Let’s blow on them. The breath of our valor will send them sprawling. There’s no question, lords, but that those extra servants and peasants swarming uselessly around our battle formations would be sufficient to rid this field of such a good-for-nothing foe, while we ourselves stood at the base of this mountain idly looking on. But our honor wouldn’t stand for that. What’s there to say? Doing the very least will do the whole job. Let the trumpets sound the signal to mount up and march. Our advance will so dazzle the enemy that England will cower in fear and surrender.

What are you waiting for, lords of France? Those island-bred skeletons, terrified for their bones, are an offensive sight on the morning field. Their ragged banners hang in shreds and the very air of France makes them shiver as it blows by. The god of war looks like a pathetic bankrupt in this miserable army, peeking timidly through a rusty visor. The horsemen stand frozen like candlesticks, torches in their hands. The poor horses droop their heads, their flanks and hips sagging, pus seeping from eyes as pale as death, and in their colorless mouths, the motionless bit is smeared with chewed grass. Meanwhile, their executors, malicious crows, fly over them, impatient for their moment. It’s beyond the power of words to describe an army so bereft of life.

They’ve said their prayers, and now they wait for death.

Shall we go send them food and fresh clothing and feed their starving horses before we fight them?

I’m just waiting for my flag-bearer. But, never mind, I can’t wait. To the field! I’ll take the banner from a trumpeter and use that. Come, let’s be off! The sun is up and we’re wasting the day!

Where is the king?

The king rode out alone to view their troops.

They have fully sixty thousand fighting men.

That’s five to one. Besides, they’re fresh.

May God’s arm strike on our side! These are frightening odds. God be with all of you, princes. I’ll go and join my men. If we don’t meet again before we meet in heaven, still we’ll meet joyfully. My noble Lord of Bedford, my dear Lord Gloucester, and my good Lord Exeter, and my kind kinsmen, warriors all, adieu.

Farewell, good Salisbury; and may good luck go with you.

Farewell, kind lord. Fight valiantly today. But then I do you wrong to say as much, since you are the very embodiment of bravery.

He is as full of courage as of kindness, princely in both.

Oh, if only we had with us here ten thousand of those men back home in England who aren’t working today.

Who wishes that? My cousin Westmoreland? No, my dear cousin. If we are slated to die, the fewer, the better for our country, and if we’re slated to live, the fewer men, the greater the share of honor for each of us. In God’s name, I beg you not to wish for one more man. By God, I am not selfish when it comes to money: I don’t care who eats at my expense. It doesn’t bother me when people borrow my clothing—I don’t care about these concrete things. But if it is a sin to be selfish about honor, I am the most guilty soul alive. No, my cousin, don’t wish that even one man who is now in England were here instead. By God, I wouldn’t lose as much honor as a single man more would cost me, I think—not even if it meant giving up my best hope for victory. Oh, do not wish one more! Instead, make this known throughout the army: whoever has no spirit for this fight, let him depart. He will be given safe conduct and money for his passage home. We would not want to die in the company of a man who fears to die with us. This day is called the Feast of Saint Crispian: he who lives to see this day out and comes home safe will stand tall when this day is named and raise himself up at the mention of Crispian. He who survives this day and lives to see old age shall yearly entertain his neighbors on the eve, saying, “Tomorrow is Saint Crispin’s Day.” He’ll roll up his sleeve and show his scars, saying, “I got these wounds on St. Crispin’s Day.” Old men forget. But these men will remember every detail of what they did today long after they’ve forgotten everything else. And as the wine flows, our names, familiar as household words, will be invoked again: Harry the King, Bedford and Exeter, Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester. Good men will tell their sons this story and the Feast of St. Crispin will never go by, from this day to the end of time, without our being remembered: we few, we happy few, we band of brothers—for whoever sheds his blood with me today shall be my brother. However humble his birth, this day shall grant him nobility. And men back in English now safe in their beds will curse themselves for not having been here, and think less of their own manhood when they listen to the stories of those who fought with us here on St. Crispin’s Day.

My sovereign lord, join us quickly: the French are all arrayed in battle formation and will charge us at any moment.

We’re ready if our minds are ready.

Let any man perish who isn’t ready now!

You don’t wish we had more help from England anymore, cousin?

God Almighty, my liege, I wish that you and I could fight this royal battle all alone.

There! Now you’ve unwished five thousand men, which I prefer to your wishing for one more.—You know your places. God be with you all.

Once more I come to ask you, King Harry, if you’re ready to negotiate your ransom before your certain defeat. For assuredly, you are so near the abyss that you’re bound to be swallowed up. Moreover, out of mercy, the Constable urges you to remind your men to make their peace with God and repent, so that their souls may depart sweetly and peacefully from these fields where, poor wretches, their bodies will likely fall and fester.

Who sent you this time?

The Constable of France.

Be good enough to take back the same answer I gave before. Tell them to capture me, then sell my bones. Good God! Why do they mock poor fellows this way? The man that once sold the skin of a lion while the beast still lived died hunting him. A good many of our bodies, I imagine, will end up in English soil. And on their graves, I trust, the story of this day’s work will be written in brass. And those who leave their valiant bones in France, dying like men though buried in your dunghills—they’ll be remembered, too. The sun will rise on them here and draw their glory up to heaven, leaving their mortal remains to choke your land: the smell of rotting flesh will breed a plague in France. Then will you notice the abundant valor of our Englishmen, who will embark on a second round of mischief like a ricocheting bullet, killing again as they fall to their deaths. Let me speak proudly: tell the Constable we’re only workaday soldiers. Our finery and shining metal are all rusty from long, painful marches in the rain. There’s not a strand of feather left in our whole army—a good sign, I hope, that we won’t fly away like birds—and time on the field has made us slovenly. But, by God, our hearts are in good shape. And my poor soldiers tell me that before night they’ll be in cleaner clothes. If not, they’ll pull the bright new coats of the French over their heads and send them on their way. If they do this, as they will, God willing, my ransom will soon be raised. Herald, spare yourself. Don’t come again to ask for my ransom, good messenger. I swear the only ransom will be these bones of mine. And if the French get them in the state in which I intend to leave them, they won’t be worth much use to anyone. Tell the constable that.

I shall, King Harry. And so farewell. You’ll never hear from the herald again.

I’m afraid you’ll come to me again for ransom.

My lord, most humbly on bended knee I beg you to grant me the leading of the vanguard.

Take it, brave York. Now, soldiers, advance. And you, God, bestow today’s victory however it pleases You.

Surrender, dog!

(speaking in French) You seem like a gentleman of high rank.

Qualtitie calmie custure me! Are you a gentleman? What is your name? Expound.

(speaking in French) Oh, God above!

This man, one O. Signieur Dew, must be a gentleman. Consider my words, O. Signieur Dew, and take note: O. Signieur Dew, you’ll be killed with my sword unless you pay me an absurd amount of money for your ransom.

(speaking in French) Oh, have mercy! Take pity on me!

(mistaking moi, the French word for “me,” as a unit of money) One moy is not enough. I must have forty moys, or I will reach into your throat and pull out some moys, along with a lot of blood.

(speaking in French) Is it impossible to escape your mighty arm?

(mishearing bras,the French word for “arm,” as “brass”) Brass, you dog! You damned lazy mountain goat, do you offer me brass?

(speaking in French) Oh, spare me!

Really? Is that a lot of moys? Come over here, boy and ask this slave in French what his name is.

(speaking in French) Look, what’s your name?

(speaking in French) Monsieur le Fer.

He says his name is Master Fer.

Master Fer! I’ll fer him, and firk him, and ferret him: expound as much to him in French.

I do not know the French for “fer,” and “ferret,” and “firk.”

Tell him to prepare himself for death, for I’m going to cut his throat.

(speaking in French, to the BOY) What is he saying, sir?

(speaking in French) He told me to tell you to prepare to die, for this soldier here is of a mind to cut your throat without delay.

(trying to speak French) Yes, cut your throat, by God, you peasant, unless you give me gold coins, good gold coins. If not, you’ll be mangled by this sword of mine.

(speaking in French) Oh, I beseech you, for the love of God, spare me! I am a gentleman of good family: spare me and I will give you two hundred écus.

What does he say?

He begs you to spare his life. He is a gentleman of a good family, and for his ransom, he will give you two hundred crowns.

Tell him my fury will abate, and I’ll take the crowns.

(speaking in French) Young sir, what does he say?

(speaking in French) Once again, that it would be breaking his oath to pardon any prisoner. Nevertheless, for the crowns that you’ve promised him, he is willing to give you freedom, liberty.

(speaking in French) On my knees I thank you again and again. And I consider myself fortunate to have fallen into the hands of a knight—to my mind, the noblest, most valiant, and most distinguished gentleman of England.

Explain, boy.

He thanks you on his knees many times and considers himself fortunate to have fallen into the hands of one, as he thinks, who is the bravest, most valorous, and thrice-worthy gentleman of England.

As I get to leech him, I will show some mercy. Follow me.

(speaking in French) Follow the mighty captain.

I never heard so loud a voice issue from such an empty heart. It’s true what they say: “The empty vessel makes the greatest sound.” Bardolph and Nym had ten times more courage than this roaring stage villain, whose nails any Joe could cut with a wooden dagger, but they are both hanged. So would this man if he had the nerve to steal anything bravely. I have to stay with the servants, who are with our camp’s luggage. We’re sitting ducks for the French, if they only knew it, for there is no one guarding it but boys.

O, hell!

O Lord, the day is lost! All is lost!

Dear God! All is lost, all! Regret and everlasting shame sit on our helmets, mocking us.

What stinking luck! Do not run away.

Our men have all broken ranks.

O, everlasting shame! Let’s fall on our swords. Are these the wretches that we threw dice for?

Is this the king we offered to ransom?

Shame, eternal shame, and nothing but shame! Let us die honorably. Back into the fray once again! He who will not follow me now, let him depart and stand in the doorway like a pimp, cap in hand, while some slave, no nobler than my dog, violates his daughter.

Maybe we can benefit from the same chaos that has defeated us. Let’s go offer up our lives en masse.

There are enough of us still alive in the field to overcome the English with our numbers if we could just restore some kind of order.

The hell with order! I’m going back into battle. Let life be short so that shame won’t last too long.

We have done well, my valiant countrymen. But it’s not over. The French are still fighting.

The duke of York sends your Majesty his respects.

Is he still alive, good uncle? Three times in an hour I saw him down, and three times up again and fighting. He was covered with blood from his helmet to his spurs.

The valiant soldier is still dressed like that, lying on the ground, drenching the field with his blood. By his side lies the noble earl of Suffolk, York’s comrade and equal in brave wounds. Suffolk died first, and York, cut to pieces, came to him where he lay in his blood and took him by the face, kissing his gashes. He cried out, “Wait for me, dear cousin. My soul will keep yours company on the way to heaven. Wait for mine, sweet soul. We’ll fly there side by side, just as we stood together as brother-knights in this glorious and well-fought battle!” At this, I went to comfort him. He smiled at me close, gave me his hand, gripping me feebly, and said, “My dear lord, commend my service to my king.” With that, he turned and threw his wounded arm around Suffolk’s neck and kissed his lips. And so, married to death, he sealed a testament of love that even ended in nobility. The fineness of the moment moved me to tears. I tried to hold them back, but wept like a mother.

I don’t blame you. Just listening, I have to school my misty eyes, or they will brim over.

But listen! What new battle is this? The French have reinforced their scattered men. Then every soldier must kill his prisoners. Spread the word.

To kill the boys with the luggage! It’s expressly against the rules of combat. It’s as complete a work of villainy as any that could be thought up. Tell me, don’t you think so?

There’s certainly not a boy left alive, and it was done by the cowardly rascals who were running from the battle. On top of this, they’ve either burned or carried away everything that was in the king’s tent. So the king has quite rightly ordered that every prisoner’s throat be cut. Oh, he’s a gallant king!

Yes, he was born at Monmouth, Captain Gower. What is the name of the town where Alexander the Pig was born?

Alexander the Great.

And is “pig” not the same as “great,” may I ask? The pig or the mighty or the huge or the magnanimous—they all mean the same thing, with some variation.

I think Alexander the Great was born in Macedon. His father was Philip of Macedon, as I remember.

I think that Macedon is indeed where Alexander was born. I tell you, Captain, if you look at a map of the world, I’ll bet you will find, comparing Macedon and Monmouth, that the situations, see, are very similar. There is a river in Macedon, and there is likewise a river in Monmouth. The river in Monmouth is called Wye, but the name of the other river has gone out of my head. Nevertheless, it’s all one—the two rivers are as alike as my fingers are to my fingers, and there are salmon in both. If you look closely at Alexander’s life, Harry of Monmouth’s stands up fairly well by comparison—for there are analogies in everything. Alexander, God knows and you know, in his rages and his furies and his wraths and his angers and his moods and his displeasures and his indignations, and also being a little the worse for drink, killed his best friend Cleitus in a drunken rage, see.

Our king is not like him in that respect: he never killed any of his friends.

It is not courteous, you know, to assume you know my meaning before I’ve finished talking. I’m speaking purely in analogies and comparisons. Just as Alexander killed his friend Cleitus when he was drinking, so Harry Monmouth, having come to his senses and acquired good judgment, turned away the fat knight in the oversized doublet: the man was full of jests and japes and pranks and mocks. I have forgotten his name.

Sir John Falstaff.

That’s the one. I tell you, there are good men born at Monmouth.

Here comes his Majesty.

I was not angry since I came to France until this instant. Take a trumpet, herald. Ride out to the horsemen on that hill. If they seek battle with us, have them come down or else clear the field. The sight of them is offensive. If they’ll do neither, we’ll come to them and make them fly like stones shot from powerful slings. We’ll also cut the throats of any prisoners we have. Not a man of them that we shall take shall know our mercy. Go and tell them this.

Here comes the herald of the French, my liege.

He looks humbler than he used to.

Well? What is the meaning of this, herald? Don’t you know that I have offered these bones of mine for ransom? Are you coming again for ransom?

No, great king. I come to ask you out of charity to let us wander over this bloody field to record the numbers of our dead and bury them, separating our nobles from the common men, for many of our princes—alas!—lie drowned and soaked in the blood of mercenary soldiers. Likewise, our common men lie drenched in the blood of princes, and their wounded steeds, ankle-deep in gore, struggle and, raging wildly, stamp on their dead masters with their hooves, killing them a second time. Oh, give us permission, great king, to search the field in safety and dispose of our dead bodies.

I’ll be honest with you, herald: I don’t even know who won the battle. I still see many of your horsemen galloping across the field.

You won it.

God, not our strength, be praised! What is the name of the castle that stands over there?

Agincourt.

Then we’ll call this the Battle of Agincourt, fought on the day of Crispin Crispianus.

If I may say so, your Majesty, your famous grandfather and your great-uncle Edward, the Black Prince of Wales—or so I’ve read in the history books—fought a very brave battle here in France.

They did, Fluellen.

Your Majesty is quite right. If your Majesties recall it, the Welsh fought very valiantly in a garden where there were leeks growing, wearing leeks in their Monmouth caps which, your Majesty knows, is to this day a badge of honorable military service. I do believe your Majesty takes no shame in wearing the leek on Saint Davy’s Day.

I wear it with pride, for I am Welsh you know, good countryman.

All the water in Wye cannot wash your Majesty’s Welsh blood out of your body. I can tell you that. God bless it and preserve it, as long as it pleases his Grace, and his Majesty, too!

Thanks, my good countryman.

By Jesus, I am your Majesty’s countryman, and I don’t care who knows it. I will confess it to all the world. I needn’t be ashamed of your Majesty, God be praised, so long as your Majesty is an honest man.

God keep me so.—Heralds, go with him. Bring me an exact report of the number of dead on both sides. (pointing to WILLIAMS) Tell that fellow over there to come here.

Soldier, you must come to the king.

Soldier, why are you wearing that glove in your cap?

If it pleases your Majesty, it is the token of a man I must fight with, if he’s still alive.

An Englishman?

If I may say so, your Majesty, he is a rascal who quarreled with me last night, and who, if he lives and ever dares to challenge this glove, will get a box on the ear from me. Or, if I see him wearing my glove in his cap, which he swore as a soldier he would wear if he lived, I will knock it off his head.

What do you say, Captain Fluellen? Should this soldier keep his oath?

If I may say so, your Majesty, as I see it he would be a coward and a villain not to.

It may be that his antagonist is a gentleman of very high degree, quite outside of his own sphere.

Even if he were as important a man as the devil—as Lucifer or Beelzebub himself—he’s required, see, your Grace, to keep his vow. If he backs down, he’ll become as notorious a villain and as saucy a Jack as ever walked on God’s earth, in my opinion.

Then keep your vow, fellow, when you meet the man.

So I will, my liege. I swear on my life.

Whom do you serve under?

Under Captain Gower, my liege.

Gower is a good captain, and is well versed and well read in the wars.

Have him come to me here, soldier.

I will, my liege.

Here, Fluellen, stick this in your cap. (gives WILLIAMS’ glove to FLUELLEN) When Alençon and I went down together, I plucked this glove from his helmet. If any man challenges it, he is a friend to Alençon and an enemy to me. If you encounter such a man, arrest him and prove your loyalty to me.

Your Grace does me as great an honor as could be wished by any of his subjects. I’d like to see the man with two legs who takes offense at this glove, that’s all! Just once I’d like to see it, if it please God to grant me that.

Do you know Captain Gower?

He is my dear friend, your Majesty.

Go find him, please, and bring him to my tent.

I’ll fetch him.

My Lord of Warwick and my brother Gloucester, follow Fluellen at a close distance. The glove which I have given him to wear may possibly win him a box on the ear. It belongs to the soldier I was just talking to. According to an agreement, I should wear it myself. Follow Fluellen, cousin Warwick, and if the soldier strikes him—and I would think from his forthright manner that he’ll keep his word—some mischief may arise as a result. I know Fluellen to be very conscious of his honor and quick to anger, hot as gunpowder and likely to return any injury promptly. Follow and see to it that nothing serious happens between them. You come with me, uncle of Exeter.

I’m sure it is to knight you, Captain.

As it is God’s will and pleasure, Captain, I entreat you to come quickly to the king. There is more good fortune in store for you than you could ever imagine.

Sir, do you recognize this glove?

Know the glove! I know the glove is a glove.

Well, I recognize this one (indicates the glove FLUELLENwears in his cap), and I hereby challenge you. (strikes him)

Good God! As absolute a traitor as any in the whole entire world—or even France or England!

What is this, you villain!

Do you think I’d break my oath?

Stand aside, Captain Gower. I’ll reward treason with blows, I promise you.

I’m not a traitor.

An infamous lie! I accuse you in the name of the king. Arrest him: he’s a friend of the duke of Alençon’s.

Now, now! What’s all this? What’s going on?

My Lord of Warwick, a most corrupt treason—God be praised for it!—has been discovered, as plain as any you’d hope to see on a summer’s day.

Here is his Majesty.

Well, now! What’s the matter?

My liege, this man is a villain and a traitor, who—see, your Grace—has struck the glove which your Majesty took from Alençon’s helmet.

My liege, this was my glove. Here is its mate, and the man I gave it to promised to wear it in his cap, and I promised to strike him if he did. I met this man with my glove in his cap, and I have been as good as my word.

Your Majesty, see here—if it won’t offend your Grace—what a complete, rascally, beggarly, lousy rat this is. I hope your Majesty will, in all good conscience, bear me out and vouch for the fact that this is the glove of Alençon and that your Majesty gave it to me.

Give me your glove, soldier: look, here is its mate. It was I, in fact, whom you promised to strike. And you spoke of me in the harshest terms.

If it pleases your Majesty, let his neck pay the price, if there is any martial law in the world.

How can you square things with me?

All offenses come from the heart, my lord, and nothing intended to offend your Majesty ever came from mine.

You abused me to my face.

Your Majesty didn’t present yourself as the king. You represented yourself as just a common man. Consider the time of night, what you were wearing, and how ordinary you looked. Anything your Highness suffered in that disguise, I beg you to see it as your own fault and not mine, because if you’d been what I took you for, there would have been no offense. Therefore, I beg your Highness, pardon me.

Here, uncle Exeter, fill this glove with gold coins and give it to this fellow. Keep it, my friend, and wear it as a badge of honor in your cap until I challenge it.—Give him the money.—And you, Captain, must make it up with him.

By this day and this light, the fellow is certainly brave. Here, twelve pence for you. I urge you to serve God and stay out of brawls and dust-ups and quarrels and disputes. I promise it will be better for you if you do.

I’ll have none of your money.

It’s meant in good will. I tell you, you can use it to get your shoes fixed. Come, why be so hesitant? Your shoes are in pretty bad shape. It’s a good shilling, I promise you. If not, I’ll get another one for you.

Now, herald, have the dead been counted?

Here is the count of the slaughtered French.

What prisoners of rank have been taken, uncle?

Charles duke of Orléans, nephew to the king; John duke of Bourbon, and Lord Bouciqualt: of other lords and barons, knights and squires, a full fifteen hundred, besides common men.

This paper tells me of ten thousand Frenchmen who lie dead on the battlefield. Among them are one hundred twenty-six princes and standard-bearing nobles. Add to these eight thousand four hundred knights, squires, and brave gentlemen, five hundred of whom were given the title of knight only yesterday. Among the ten thousand the French have lost only sixteen hundred are mercenaries. The rest of the dead are princes, barons, lords, knights, squires, and gentlemen of birth and rank. The names of those of their nobles that lie dead: Charles Delabreth, high constable of France; Jaques of Chatillon, admiral of France; the master of the crossbows, Lord Rambures; Great Master of France, the brave Sir Guichard Dolphin, John duke of Alençon, Anthony duke of Brabant, the brother of the duke of Burgundy, and Edward duke of Bar. Of brave earls, Grandpré and Roussi, Fauconberg and Foix, Beaumont and Marle, Vaudemont and Lestrale. Here was a royal fellowship of death! Where is the number of our English dead?

Edward the duke of York, the earl of Suffolk, Sir Richard Ketly, Davy Gam, esquire. No one else of name, and only twenty-five other men. Oh, God, your power was with us. What happened here is your doing alone, not ours. When was there ever before so great a loss on one side and so little on the other, in the ordinary and equal clash of battle? Take credit, God, for it is no one’s doing but yours.

It’s unbelievable.

Come, let’s make a solemn procession to the village. And let it be proclaimed throughout our army that it shall be a hanging offense for anyone to boast of this or take from God the credit that belongs to Him alone.

If it pleases your Majesty, isn’t it permissible to mention the number of casualties?

Yes, Captain, but with this acknowledgement—that God fought for us.

Yes, I truly think He did great good.

We’ll perform all the holy rites. Let Non nobis and Te Deum be sung, and let the dead be buried properly. Then on to Calais and from there to England. There have never been more fortunate men than we to return from France.

Allow me to fill in the gaps for those of you who have not read this story. As for those who have, I beg you to excuse the gaps in time, and the many people and things that cannot be represented here in all their magnitude and proper form. Let’s bring the king now to Calais. Imagine him there and, having seen him there, haul him back across the sea on the wings of your imagination. There’s the coast of England: see how the sea seems to be fenced in by the men and wives and boys who line the shore, their shouts and wild applause drowning out the deep roar of the surf. As the king’s ship draws near, the very ocean is like a man running before the king, preparing his way. Let’s have him land and solemnly proceed to London. Thoughts work so quickly that even now you can imagine him on Blackheath, where his lords suggest that he should carry his battle-scarred sword and helmet on a procession through the city. He refuses, as he is free of vanity and self-serving pride and ascribes all the glory and responsibility for victory to God. Now in the factory of thought, create the image of all London pouring forth into the streets. Picture the mayor and all his brother citizens dressed in their best as they go forth like senators of ancient Rome to welcome home their conquering Caesar. Imagine if our own queen’s general returned from Ireland, having stamped out the rebellion there, as we hope he does very soon, how many people would leave the city to come welcome him. Even more people than that welcomed Harry home, and they had even more reason. Let’s put him now in London, since France’s period of mourning requires the king of England to stay home. Imagine a visit of the Holy Roman Emperor, working on France’s behalf. He wants to bring about a peace between the two countries. Skip over all the particularities between then and Harry’s return to France. There we must place him, and I myself have covered the interim period by reminding you that it has taken place. So, keeping this omission in mind, immediately return to France, your eyes following the path of your thoughts.

Yes, that’s true, but why are you wearing your leek today? Saint Davy’s Day has passed.

There are reasons and causes why and how in everything. I’ll tell you as my friend, Captain Gower: that rascally, mean, beggarly, lousy, bragging Pistol, whom you and yourself and all the world know to be no better than a peasant—see—with no good qualities at all: he came to me yesterday and brought me bread and salt and told me to eat my leek. We were somewhere where I couldn’t pick a fight with him, but I’ve decided to wear it in my cap until I see him again, whereupon I’ll give him a little piece of my mind.

And here he comes, puffing himself up like a turkey.

Never mind his puffings and his turkeys. God bless you, Ensign Pistol! You lousy, rotten, villain, God bless you!

Are you mad? Do you want me to cut your life short, you deceiving lowlife? Away! The smell of leek turns my stomach.

I wonder if you’d be so good, you lousy, rotten villain, to grant my wish and my request and gratify me, see, by eating this leek. I’d like you to, see, because you don’t like it, and because it isn’t to your taste, and because it doesn’t agree with you.

Not for Cadwallader and all his goats.

Here’s a goat for you. (strikes him with a club) Will you be good enough to eat it, mangy rascal?

Dissolute lowlife, you shall die.

That’s very true, mangy rascal, when it pleases God. Meanwhile, I’d be gratified if you’d live and eat your food. Come, here’s some sauce to go with it. (strikes him with his club) Yesterday you called me “mountain squire.” Today I’ll make you squire of the low ground. Go on, eat up. If you can mock a leek, you can eat a leek.

Enough, Captain. You’ve stunned him.

I tell you, I’ll either make him eat some part of this leek or give him a four-day head-bashing.—Go on, bite. It’s good for your fresh wound and your bloody noggin.

Must I bite?

Yes, absolutely, no question or ambiguity about it.

By this leek, I swear I’ll make you pay for this. (FLUELLENthreatens to strike him) Okay, okay, I’m eating it—

Please do. Would you like some more sauce to go with it? There isn’t enough leek left for you to swear on.

Lay off, already! Can’t you see I’m eating?

I sincerely hope it does you good, mangy rascal. No, don’t throw any of it away. The skin is good for your cracked head. When you see leeks in the future, I hope you keep mocking them. That’s all.

Good.

Yes, leeks are good. Wait, here’s a penny to heal your head.

Me, a penny?

Yes, and you’ll take it. If not, I have another leek in my pocket that you can eat.

I’ll take this penny as a token that you’ll pay for this.

If I owe you anything, I’ll pay you in clubbings. You’ll become a wood salesman and buy nothing but clubs from me. God be with you and keep you, and may he heal your head.

There’ll be hell to pay for this.

Go on, get out of here. You’re a lying, cowardly wretch. You mock an ancient tradition, born of reverence and worn in honor of brave men who have died, and then have the gall not to stand by your words. I’ve seen you bait and mock this man more than once. You thought because he didn’t speak English like a native he couldn’t handle an English club. You’ve learned otherwise. Let this be a Welsh lesson to you to behave with English manners in the future. Farewell.

Has Fortune turned on me, like the whore she is? I’ve had news that my Nell died of the pox in a hospice. There went my last refuge. I grow old, and all dignity has been thrashed out of me. Well, I’ll turn pimp and do some occasional pickpocketing. I’ll steal away to England, and I’ll steal some more when I get there. I’ll bandage up these wounds and swear I got them in the French wars.

Peace to this occasion that’s brought us all together. Health and good day to our brother the king of France and to our sister the queen. Joy and good wishes to our lovely royal cousin, Katherine. And you, Duke of Burgundy, who brought this great assembly together, we salute you as descendent and member of this royal family. And a health to all you lords and princes of France.

We rejoice to see you, most worthy brother of England. You are welcome here, as are all of you English princes.

Brother of England, may this meeting prove as fruitful as it is joyous. We are glad to look upon your face—a face whose eyes have until now carried in them a glance as deadly, for any Frenchman they alighted on, as the poisonous eyes of those mythical lizards, the basilisks. We hope your poison has worn off and this day shall transform all grievances and quarrels into friendship.

We’re here to say “amen” to that.

All you English princes, I salute you.

Great kings of France and England, I owe you both equal service and loyalty. Your Highnesses can both attest to the fact that I’ve strived mightily, with all my wits and energy, to bring about this royal meeting between you two imperial Majesties. Since I have succeeded to the point of bringing you face to face and eye to eye, don’t take it ill if I formally demand to know, before this royal congregation, what obstacle or impediment prevents the poor fragile, mangled peace, the mother of arts and joyous births, from showing her lovely face in this most fertile garden of the world, our fair France? Alas, she has been too long exiled from France, whose crops all lie in heaps, rotting with ripeness. Her grapes, which make the wine that cheers our hearts, die unpruned on the vines. Her once-trimmed hedges, like prisoners with wild, untended hair, put forth unruly twigs. Her fallow fields are overgrown with weeds, while the blade that should uproot such wilderness lies rusting. The level meadow, where the freckled cowslip, burnet, and green clover once grew, has become useless: unmowed, it grows to seed, so that nothing springs up but weeds, rough thistles, barren plants, and burs. And just as our vineyards, fallow fields, meadows, and hedges, which grow improperly if left to themselves, run riot, so our families and ourselves and our children have lost—or no longer have time to learn—skills that should be a credit to our country. They grow like savages—like soldiers who meditate on nothing but blood—surrounded by swearing and stern looks, ragged clothing and everything unnatural. It’s to reverse all this, so we can once again become as we were, that you have all been brought together; therefore I demand to know why gentle peace should not banish these troubles and bless us with her former qualities.

Duke of Burgundy, if you want peace, the lack of which creates these misfortunes you describe, you must purchase it buy agreeing across-the-board to all our very just demands. You hold the details and particulars of our terms, briefly enumerated, before you in your hands.

The king has heard them, but as yet has made no answer.

Well, the peace you pleaded for so eloquently just now lies in his answer.

I’ve only given the articles a cursory glance. If your Grace would kindly appoint some members of your council to sit with me once more and go over them more carefully, I will give my answer and acceptance right away.

Brother, I shall. Go, uncle Exeter, and brother Clarence, and you, brother Gloucester, Warwick and Huntingdon, go with the king. You have full power to confirm, change, or add to any of my demands in any way that you judge advantageous to my rule, and I’ll undertake to agree to it. Fair sister, will you go with the princes or stay here with me?

Gracious brother, I will go with them. Perhaps a woman’s voice may do some good when some small detail proves to be holding things up.

In that case, leave our cousin Katherine here with us. She is our principal demand—one of the first points of the treaty.

She is welcome to stay.

Lovely, most lovely Katherine, will you agree to teach a soldier the words that would recommend his love-suit to a gentle heart like yours?

Your Majesty shall mock at me. I cannot speak your England.

Lovely Katherine, if you will love me well with your French heart, I’m happy to hear you confess it in broken English. Do you like me, Kate?

Pardon me but I do not know what is “like me.”

An angel is like you, Kate, and you are like an angel.

(to ALICE, in French) What does he say? That I am like an angel?

(in French) Yes, your Grace, that’s what he says.

I said so, dear Katherine, and I’m not ashamed to repeat it.

(in French) Oh, Lord! The tongues of men are full of deceit.

(to ALICE) What does she say, pretty one? That the tongues of men are full of deceits?

Oui, dat de tongues of de mans is be full of deceits: dere’s de princess for you.

How very English of her. Kate, my wooing is fit for your understanding: I am glad your English isn’t better. If it were, you would find me such an ordinary king that you would think I’d sold my farm to buy my crown. I don’t know any fancy ways of talking about love, only to say right out, “I love you.” If you press me any further than with the question, “Do you really?” my love scene is over. So give me your answer, and we’ll shake on it. Deal?

With all due respect, me understand well.

Really, if you were thinking of having me write poetry or dance for you, Kate, you’ve defeated me already. I have no gift for the one and no strength for the other, though I have the gift of strength. If I could win a lady by playing leapfrog or vaulting into my saddle with my armor on my back—though you may accuse me of boasting—I could easily get myself a wife. I can fight with my fists and rear my horse up without falling off him, if either of those things could win me love. But, before God, Kate, I cannot turn pale on purpose or gasp out fancy phrases, and I have no gift for clever declarations, only blunt oaths, which I never use till I’m asked and never break no matter who asks me. If you can love a man of this temperament, Kate, whose face a sunburn wouldn’t make any worse and who never looks in the mirror to admire himself, let your eye improve me. I speak to you as a plain soldier. If you can love me for this, take me. If not, to tell you I will die is true, but not for love, by God. And yet I do love you. So take for life a fellow of pure and plain faithfulness. He’s bound to be true to you as he won’t be up to flirting with other women. These chatty fellows who can rhyme their way into a lady’s good graces always reason themselves out again. Look, a talker is just a gabber; a poem is just a rhyme. A good leg will shrink, a straight back stoop, a black beard turn white, a curly head grow bald, an attractive face grow wrinkled and a pretty eye hollow. But a good heart, Kate, is the sun and the moon, or, rather, the sun, and not the moon, for it goes on shining brightly forever. If you would have such a man, take me. Take me and get a soldier; take a soldier and get a king. So what do you say to my suit? Speak, my fair one, and speak fairly, I beg you.

Is it possible dat I sould love de enemy of France?

No, it is not possible you should love the enemy of France, Kate. But in loving me, you would love the friend of France, for I love France so much that I will not part with a single village of it. I will have it all mine. And, Kate, when France is mine and I am yours, then France is yours and you are mine.

I don’t understand all dat.

No, Kate? I will tell you in French, which I am sure will hang as heavily on my tongue as a newly married wife around her husband’s neck, impossible to shake off. (in stilted French) I, when, on the possession of France, and when you have the possession of me—(in English) let me see, what then? help me, Saint Denis!—(French again) then yours is France and you are mine. (in English) It would be as easy for me to reconquer the kingdom, Kate, as it would be for me to speak that much French again. I’ll never move you in French, except to laugh at me.

Your French, sir, is better than my English.

No, really, it’s not, Kate. But your speaking my language, and I yours truly-falsely comes to pretty much the same thing. Can you understand this much English though, Kate? Could you love me?

I cannot tell.

Can any of your neighbors tell, Kate? I’ll ask them. Come, I know you love me. And at night, when you go to your bedroom, you’ll question this gentlewoman about me and, I know, Kate, you’ll criticize those qualities of mine that you secretly love. But mock me gently, dear Kate, because I love you terribly. If I ever win you, Kate, as I have an inkling I will, it won’t be without a skirmish—and that suggests you’d make a good mother of soldiers. Shall not you and I together, then, between Saint Denis and Saint George, make a boy, half French, half English, who will go to Constantinople and grab the Turk by the beard? Shall we not? What do you say, my fair fleur-de-lys?

I do not know dat.

No, of course you don’t. It lies in the future, along with certainty. Now there can only be the promise. Do promise, Kate, that you’ll do your French part to bring forth such a boy; and for my English half, take the word of a king and a bachelor. What’s your answer, (speaking in French) oh loveliest of Katherines, my most precious and divine goddess?

Your Majesty has false French enough to deceive de wisest lady in France.

Damn my false French. I tell you truly, in true English: I love you, Kate. And though I wouldn’t dare to swear that you love me, still my blood begins to flatter me that you do, despite the ill effects of my face. Curse my father’s ambition! He was thinking of civil wars when he conceived me, and consequently my outward appearance is harsh and steely. I intimidate ladies when I come to woo them. But I promise you, Kate: the older I grow the better I’ll look. My comfort is that old age, that poor preserver of beauty, can’t make my face any worse than it already is. If you have me, you have me now at my worst; and if you have me, you’ll appreciate me better and better. Therefore tell me, fairest Katherine, will you have me? Put aside your maiden blushes and speak your true feelings with the bearing of an empress. Take me by the hand and say, “Harry of England, I am yours.” No sooner shall I hear that word than I will tell you straight out, “England is yours, Ireland is yours, France is yours, and Harry Plantagenet is yours.” And, though I say so in his presence, if he’s not a friend of the best kings, you’ll find him king of the best friends. Come on, tell me in broken music—for your voice is music and your English broken. Come, Katherine Queen of All, reveal your heart to me in broken English. Will you have me?

Dat is as it shall please de king my father.

Oh, it will please him, Kate. It will please him very well.

Den it shall also content me.

With that I kiss your hand and call you my queen.

(in French) No, sir! Stop, stop! Heavens, I can’t allow you to lower yourself by kissing the hand of one of your humble servants. I hope you’ll pardon me, mighty king.

Then I will kiss your lips, Kate.

(in French) It is not the custom for French maidens to kiss before they are married.

What does she say, madam interpreter?

Dat it not be de custom pour les ladies of France—I cannot tell vat is baiser en Anglish.

To kiss.

Your Majesty understand bettre den me.

It is not the custom for the maids in France to kiss before they are married, is that what she says?

Yes, exactly.

Oh, Kate, prudish customs bow before great kings. You and I cannot be held within the confines of a country’s arbitrary customs, dear Kate. You and I, Kate, we are the makers of custom, and the freedom that goes with our position silences all who would criticize, as I will silence you for upholding the prudish custom of your country in refusing me a kiss. Therefore, willingly and yielding. (kisses her) You have witchcraft in your lips, Kate. There is more eloquence in a sweet touch of them than in the tongues of the whole French council. They would persuade Harry of England sooner than a whole assembly of monarchs. Here comes your father.

God save your Majesty. My royal kinsman, are you teaching our princess English?

I wanted to teach her how perfectly I love her, kinsman, and that’s good English.

She picks it up quick, doesn’t she?

Our language is rough, friend, and it’s not in my nature to speak smoothly. So, possessing neither a voice nor a heart for flattery, I can’t awaken the spirit of love in her so as to make him appear in his true likeness.

Forgive my boldness if I take you up on your words about making magic. For love to appear in his true likeness, he would have to be as Cupid is: naked and blind. How can you blame her, a tender young maiden still given to virgin blushes, for objecting to having a blind, naked boy appear before her? It’s a lot to ask of a maiden.

But virgins close their eyes and submit all the time, and blind love has his way.

They’re forgiven, then, if they don’t see what they’re doing.

Then teach your cousin to also be willing to close her eyes, my lord.

I will signal her with a wink to consent, my lord, if you will teach her what that means. Maidens who are well fed and well taken care of are like August flies, blind though they can see. They’ll let you handle them then, though they’d scarcely let you look at them before.

So you’re telling me to give it time and wait for summer. And even then, in order for me to catch the fly your cousin, she must be blind?

Like love, my lord, before it learns to love.

Fair enough. Some of you may, thank love for my blindness. There’s many a French town that I can’t see because one pretty French maid stands in front of me.

Oh yes, my lord, you see them, but you see them metaphorically. The cities appear to you like a maiden because virgin walls, which war has never invaded, surround them.

Shall Kate be my wife?

If you wish.

I am satisfied, as long as the maiden cities you talk of come with her. That way, the maiden that stood between me and them shall be the means of my achieving my desire.

We have consented to all reasonable terms.

Is that true, my lords of England?

The king has agreed to every point: first his daughter, then everything else, as you strictly proposed.

Except that he has not yet agreed to address you in this form and with this title—in French, Notre tres cher fils Henri, Roi d’Angleterre, Heritier de France; and in Latin, Praeclarissimus filius noster Henricus, Rex Angliae, et Haeres Franciae.

And even this I’m willing to grant if you request it.

In that case, I ask that for the sake of friendship and alliance you let that one item stand with the rest, and bestow your daughter on me.

Take her, my son, and give me children by her, so that the warring kingdoms of France and England, whose very shores have paled in envy at each other’s happiness, may finally end their mutual hostility. May this precious marriage cause friendship and alliance between them and war never again threaten England or fair France with his bloody sword.

Amen.

Now, welcome, Kate.—And let everyone bear witness that here I kiss her as my sovereign queen.

May God, who is the best matchmaker, join your hearts and realms in one. As man and wife, though two, are one in love, so let there be between your kingdoms such a marriage that neither wrongdoing nor fierce jealousy, which often trouble the sacred state of marriage, ever sever them. And let Englishmen be French and Frenchmen English. God say, “Amen”!

Amen!

Let us prepare for our wedding.—On that day, I’ll take your oath of loyalty, my Lord of Burgundy and all my peers, to guarantee my treaty. Then I will swear to Kate and you to me, and may our oaths be faithfully kept and prove fortunate.

Thus far has our straining author pursued the story with his crude, inadequate writing, keeping important people penned up in this little room while he mangled history’s full glory with his uneven telling. The lifespan of our English hero was brief, but in that brief time he achieved greatness. He had good luck as a warrior, and with it he created the world’s greatest garden, France, leaving his son as its imperial ruler. Henry the Sixth, crowned king of France and England while still in his infancy, succeeded him. But so many people had a hand in managing the child’s kingdom that France was lost and civil war came to England—a story we’ve acted out many times on this stage. With those plays in mind, we hope you’ll receive this one kindly.