Last time, on Henry V…
– The “once more unto the breach” speech happened!
– The National Stereotype Captains arrived!
– Princess Katherine learned how to cuss in English!
– The French all had secret crushes on King Henry V!
– Bardolph got hella dead!
– The English troops got dysentery!
– The Dauphin had a very special relationship with his horse!
…and now, the thrilling continuation.
—
PROLOGUE
aka SPOILERS, SPOILERS EVERYWHERE
The Chorus talks about how the French are still super-confident, the English are still dreading the morning, and King Henry V is going to do his darndest to cheer up the troops before the battle.
A largesse universal, like the sun,
His liberal eye doth give to everyone,
Thawing cold fear, that mean and gentle all
Behold, as may unworthiness define,
A little touch of Harry in the night.
Best sleep aid ad campaign slogan, or best sleep aid ad campaign slogan? You decide!
—
ACT IV, SCENE I
The night before the battle of Agincourt, in the English camp. King Henry is talking to John of Bedford (prince, badass, etc.), and Humphrey of Gloucester (just prince), trying to make them a little less depressed about their imminent demise. Sir Thomas Erpingham (BEST NAME) interrupts.
King Henry:
Good morrow, old Sir Thomas Erpingham.
A good soft pillow for that good white head
Were better than a churlish turf of France.
Erpingham:
Not so, my liege, this lodging likes me better,
Since I may say “Now lie I like a king.”
This gives King Henry V an idea. He borrows Erpingham’s cloak and sends everyone present away, then begins wandering the camp. Yes, Hal’s gone back to his old tricks: when in doubt, toss on a disguise and eavesdrop!
The first person he encounters on his disguised travels is Pistol. The King identifies himself as Harry le Roy, because he loves puns almost as much as we do, and says he is a Welshman in the infantry. Pistol asks if he knows Fluellen, and threatens to punch Fluellen in the head on Saint Davy’s day, Saint Davy being the patron saint of Wales.* Harry says Fluellen will kick his ass, saying that Fluellen is his friend and kinsman. Pistol flips him the medieval bird and storms off.
Fluellen and Gower enter, taking no notice of Harry le Roy, and proceed to be flippin’ adorable.
Gower:
Captain Fluellen.
Fluellen:
So. In the name of Jesu Christ, speak fewer. It is the greatest admiration in the universal world when the true and aunchient prerogatifes and laws of the wars is not kept. If you would take the pains but to examine the wars of Pompey the Great, you shall find, I warrant you, that there is no tiddle taddle nor pibble babble in Pompey’s camp. I warrant you, you shall find the ceremonies of the wars and the cares of it and the forms of it and the sobriety of it and the modesto of it to be otherwise.
Gower:
Why, the enemy is loud. You hear him all night.
Fluellen:
If the enemy is an ass and a fool and a prating coxcomb, is it meet, think you, that we should also, look you, be an ass and a fool and a prating coxcomb, in your own conscience now?
Gower: I will speak lower.
Fluellen: I pray you and beseech you that you will.
Rough translation to follow.
Gower: “Hey Cap.”
Fluellen: “omg stfu!”
Gower: “The enemy’s way louder than I am!”
Fluellen: “And if the enemy jumped off a bridge, would you jump off, too?”
Gower: “Okay, fine, shutting up now.”
Fluellen: “Good.”
Once they leave, Harry muses that Fluellen is a brave and good man, if a little old-fashioned.
Three common soldiers replace the captains. Their names are John Bates, Alexander Court, and Michael Williams. They talk amongst themselves about how much they’re dreading the dawn, when the French will attack and they’ll all surely perish. Unlike their captains, however, they notice Harry le Roy’s presence and call out to him. He tells them he serves under Sir Thomas Erpingham (or at least, under his cloak; you think you’re so clever, don’t you, Harry?). The men ask him what Erpingham thinks of their chances. Harry says it ain’t good. But has Erpingham told the King? No, he hasn’t, and Harry doesn’t think he should.
King Henry:
No. Nor is it not meet he should, for, though I speak it to you, I think the King is but a man as I am.
Oh you clever bastard.
The violet smells to him as it doth to me. The element shows to him as it doth to me. All his senses have but human conditions. His ceremonies laid by, in his nakedness he appears but a man, and though his affections are higher mounted than ours, yet when they stoop, they stoop with the like wing. Therefore, when he sees reason of fears as we do, his fears out of doubt, be of the same relish as ours are. Yet, in reason, no man should possess him with any appearance of fear, lest he, by showing it, should dishearten his army.
“I bet the King’s just as scared shitless as we are, but unlike us, he can’t show it, otherwise the whole army would be overcome by fear and we’d be fucked.”
AND YOU WOULD KNOW, TOO. But Bates remains unconvinced.
Bates:
He may show what outward courage he will, but I believe, as cold a night as ’tis, he could wish himself in Thames up to the neck; and so I would he were, and I by him, at all adventures, so we were quit here.
King Henry:
By my troth, I will speak my conscience of the King. I think he would not wish himself anywhere but where he is.
You “think.”
Bates:
Then I would he were here alone; so should he be sure to be ransomed, and a many poor men’s lives saved.
King Henry:
I dare say you love him not so ill to wish him here alone, howsoever you speak this to feel other men’s minds. Me thinks I could not die anywhere so contented as in the King’s company, his cause being just and his quarrel honorable.
Yes. His honorable quarrel over tennis balls.
Williams is likewise unconvinced of the upcoming battle’s honor.
Williams:
But if the cause be not good, the King himself hath a heavy reckoning to make, when all those legs and arms and heads, chopped off in a battle, shall join together at the latter day, and cry all “We died at such a place,” some swearing, some crying for a surgeon, some upon their wives left poor behind them, some upon the debts they owe, some upon their children rawly left.
Sweet fuck, that’s a horrifying image.
I am afeared there are few die well that die in a battle, for how can they charitably dispose of anything when blood is their argument? Now, if these men do not die well, it will be a black matter for the king that led them to it, who to disobey were against all proportion of subjection.
King Henry respectfully disagrees, though I think he might be a little biased.
King Henry:
So, if a son that is by his father sent about merchandise do sinfully miscarry upon the sea, the imputation of his wickedness, by your rule, should be imposed upon his father that sent him. Or if a servant, under his master’s command transporting a sum of money, be assailed by robbers and die in many irreconciled iniquities, you may call the business of the master the author of the servant’s damnation. But this is not so. The King is not bound to answer the particular endings of his soldiers, the father of his son, nor the master of his servant, for they purpose not their death when they purpose their services.
I don’t think this is the ironclad argument King Henry believes it to be. Sailors and servants are not expected to die in their line of work. Soldiers, on the other hand, kill and die practically by definition. Only an idiot would go into battle expecting none of the men he ordered to fight for him would die.
In conclusion, bluh bluh imposing 21st-century morals on a 16th-century text, bluh.
This argument, among others, convinces Williams and Bates.
Williams:
‘Tis certain, every man that dies ill, the ill upon his own head; the King is not to answer it.
Bates:
I do not desire he should answer for me, and yet I determine to fight lustily for him.
King Henry:
I myself heard the King say he would not be ransomed.
Of course you did. You were there. Saying it. You incredible dork.
Williams doesn’t think it much matters what the King vows, since if he’s in a position to be ransomed, they’ll probably all be dead and none the wiser. Harry replies that if he lives to see the King proved a liar, he’ll never trust him again. Williams, in a fit of patriotism, does not approve. Harry doesn’t have time to fight with Williams right now, so they make a vow to fight after the battle, assuming they both survive. But it’s dark out! How will they recognize each other later? Simple: they will exchange gloves, and wear said gloves in their hats. When Williams sees his glove again, he’ll attack the wearer, and Harry will do likewise.
In short, a commoner just challenged the King to a duel.
This’ll end well.
The soldiers move on, leaving Harry alone to soliloquize about how much it sucks to be king.
Upon the King! Let us our lives, our souls, our debts, our careful wives, our children, and our sins, lay on the King!
We must bear all. O hard condition,
Twin-born with greatness, subject to the breath
Of every fool whose sense no more can feel
But his own wringing. What infinite heart’s ease
Must kings neglect that private men enjoy?
And what have kings that privates have not too,
Save ceremony, save general ceremony?
And what art thou, thou idol ceremony?
What kind of god art thou that suffer’st more
Of mortal griefs than do thy worshipers?
What are thy rents? What are thy comings-in?
O ceremony, show me but thy worth!
What is thy soul of adoration?
Art thou aught else but place, degree, and form,
Creating awe and fear in other men,
Wherein thou art less happy, being feared,
Than they are in fearing?
What drink’st thou oft, instead of homage sweet,
But poisoned flattery? O, be sick, great greatness,
And bid thy ceremony give thee cure!
He goes on from there, but one gets the idea. Eventually Erpingham returns to tell the King that the nobles are running around like chickens with their heads cut off trying to find him. Harry tells him to send all the nobles to his tent, and he’ll be there shortly. Erpingham leaves, and Harry speechifies again.
King Henry:
O God of battles, steel my soldiers’ hearts.
Possess them not with fear. Take from them now
The sense of reck’ning or th’ opposèd numbers
Pluck their hearts from them. Not today, O Lord,
O, not today, think not upon the fault
My father made in compassing the crown.
I Richard’s body have interrèd new
And on it have bestowed more contrite tears
Than from it issued forcèd drops of blood.
Five hundred poor I have in yearly pay
Who twice a day their withered hands hold up
Toward heaven to pardon blood. And I have built
Two chantries where the sad and solemn priests
Sing still for Richard’s soul. More will I do––
Though all that I can do is nothing worth,
Since that my penitence comes after all,
Imploring pardon.
It’s very rare that we get to see King Henry feel guilt or regret, so this passage goes a long way in humanizing him.
Gloucester comes in to collect the King, and they exit.
—
ACT IV, SCENE II
Back in the French camp, the French nobles lament that the English won’t put up more of a fight. They predict that the English could be blown over by a stiff breeze, and that their servants would be more than enough to defeat them.
Constable:
Hark how our steeds for present service neigh.
Dauphin:
Mount them, and make incision in their hides,
That their hot blood may spin in English eyes
And dout them with superfluous courage. Ha!
Rambures:
What, will you have them weep our horses’ blood?
How shall we then behold their natural tears?
Yeah. It’s not looking good for the English.
—
ACT IV, SCENE III
It’s morning at last. John of Bedford (prince, badass, etc.), Humphrey of Gloucester (just prince), Exeter, Erpingham, Salisbury, and Westmoreland are waiting for the King to arrive. Salisbury peaces out to go to his place on the battlefield, and the King enters. Cue the speech. No, the other one.
Westmoreland:
O, that we now had here
But one ten thousand of those men in England
That do no work today.
Trans.: “I wish there were more dudes on our side.”
King Henry:
What’s he that wishes so?
My cousin Westmoreland? No, my fair cousin.
If we are marked to die, we are enough
To do our country loss; and if to live,
The fewer men, the greater share of honor.
God’s will, I pray thee wish not one man more.
By Jove, I am not covetous for gold,
Nor care I who doth feed upon my cost;
It yearns me not if men my garments wear;
Such outward things dwell not in my desires.
But if it be a sin to covet honor,
I am the most offending soul alive.
No, ‘faith, my coz, wish not a man from England.
God’s peace, I would not lose so great an honor
As one man more, methinks, would share from me,
For the best hope I have. O, do not wish one more!
Trans.: “Wrong answer. We have precisely as many dudes as we need. Actually, we should have less dudes. If we lose, then we’ll have fewer dudes dead, and if we win, that’s fewer dudes we have to share the glory with. And damn do I love glory.”
I’m getting echoes of Hal’s unwillingness to share glory with Hotspur in Henry IV: Part I. Apparently the complex hasn’t left him upon becoming King.
Rather proclaim it, Westmoreland, through my host,
That he which hath no stomach to this fight,
Let him depart. His passport shall be made,
And crowns for convoy put into his purse.
We would not die in that man’s company
That fears his fellowship to die with us.
Trans.: “Anybody who doesn’t want to come be awesome with me is more than welcome to leave now. I don’t want ’em near me if they don’t want to be here.”
This day is called the feast of Crispian.
He that outlives this day and comes safe home
Will stand o’ tiptoe when this day is named
And rouse him at the name of Crispian.
He that shall see this day, and live old age,
Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbors
And say “Tomorrow is Saint Crispian.”
Then he will strip his sleeve and show his scars.
Old men forget; yet all shall be forgot,
But he’ll remember with advantages
What feats he did that day. Then shall our names,
Familiar in his mouth as household words,
Harry the King, Bedford and Exeter,
Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester,
Be in their flowing cups freshly remembered.
This story shall the good man teach his son,
And Crispin Crispian shall ne’er go by,
From this day to the ending of the world,
But we in it shall be rememberéd––
Trans.: “Everybody that stays is going to be remembered for-fucking-ever. All of us that survive this will remember this even after the rest of our memories are eaten by Alzheimer’s and dementia.”
And now, the big finish:
We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;
For he today that sheds his blood with me
Shall be my brother; be he ne’er so vile,
This day shall gentle his condition;
And gentlemen in England now abed
Shall think themselves accursed they were not here,
And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks
That fought with us upon Saint Crispin’s day.
Trans.: “Again, we are all awesome, yes even you, and everyone we left back home is going to be so totally jealous.”
Welp, I’m inspired. So is Westmoreland.
King Henry:
Thou dost not wish more help from England, coz?
Westmoreland:
God’s will, my liege, would you and I alone,
Without more help, could fight this royal battle!
King Henry:
Why, now thou has unwished five thousand men,
Which likes me better than to wish us one.––
You know your places. God be with you all.
Salisbury arrives to tell the King that the French are on their way. Montjoy the herald follows shortly after, with another message from the French nobles. They want to know if King Henry is ready to surrender yet. Spoiler alert: he’s not.
King Henry:
I pray thee bear my former answer back.
Bid them achieve me and then sell my bones.
Good God, why should they mock poor fellows thus?
The man that once did sell the lion’s skin
While the beast lived was killed with hunting him.
Trans.: “I already told you: kill me first, then you can have my body for ransom. Stop counting your chickens before they hatch.”
A many of our bodies shall no doubt
Find native graves, upon the which, I trust,
Shall witness live in brass of this day’s work.
And those that leave their valiant bones in France,
Dying like men, though buried in your dunghills,
They shall be famed; for there the sun shall greet them
And draw their honors reeking up to heaven,
Leaving their earthly parts to choke your clime,
The smell whereof shall breed a plague in France.
Trans.: “I’m still betting that most of us will end up buried safe at home in England, with medals for our bravery. And for those of us that do die here, not even the shittiness of French soil will spoil their souls. But their bodies will leave such a vengeful stench that it’ll give you all the plague.”
Mark, then, abounding valor in our English,
That being dead, like to the bullet’s crazing,
Break out into a second course of mischief,
Killing in relapse of mortality.
Let me speak proudly: tell the Constable
We are but warriors for the working day;
Our gayness and our gilt are all be smirched
With rainy marching in the painful field.
There’s not a piece of feather in our host––
Good argument, I hope, we will not fly––
And time hath worn us into slovenry.
Trans.: “…”
Okay I can’t actually figure out what he’s trying to get at here, sorry.
But, By the Mass, our hearts are in the trim,
And my poor soldiers tell me, yet ere night
They’ll be in fresher robes, or they will pluck
The gay new coats o’er the French soldiers’ heads
And turn them out of service. If they do this,
As, if God please, they shall, my ransom then
Will soon be levied. Herald, save thou thy labor.
Come thou no more for ransom, gentle herald.
They shall have none, I swear, but these my joints,
Which, if they have, as I will leave ’em them,
Shall yield them little, tell the Constable.
Trans.: “We may look like crap now, but we’ll look much better in the shiny new clothes we rip off your corpses. So go away, and don’t come back here asking for ransom again.”
Montjoy:
I shall, King Harry. And so fare thee well.
Thou never shalt hear herald anymore.
King Henry:
I fear thou wilt once more come again for a ransom.
My footnotes have something interesting to say about that last line. They claim that other editors “often mark these lines as an aside, arguing that the assertion is an expression of Henry’s fear of defeat, which he would not want his men to hear. However, the lines may be no more than a (perhaps jocular) contradiction of Montjoy that calls attention to his already evident persistence in seeking Henry’s ransom.”
Montjoy dutifully leaves to carry this message back to the French, York is given permission to lead the vanguard, and the English go forth to battle.
—
ACT IV, SCENE IV
Pistol, accompanied by the Boy, meets a French soldier on the battlefield. The soldier speaks no English, and Pistol speaks no French. Wackiness ensues.
Pistol fights the soldier until he yields, then asks his name. The soldier answers “O Seigneur Dieu!” which is early modern French for “Oh my God!” Pistol, naturally, assumes the man’s name is Seigneur Dieu. When the soldier asks for mercy (pitié de moi!), Pistol takes moy to be a unit of money and asks for forty of them in exchange for the soldier’s life. “Pardon me!” says the soldier, and Pistol wants to know if a pardonnez is as much moi as he’s asking for.
Fortunately, the Boy speaks French, and steps in to clear some of this nonsense up. The soldier’s name in English is Master Fer, and he’s willing to give Pistol two hundred crowns. Pistol accepts his offer, and exits with Master Fer as his prisoner. The Boy stays behind to expound upon Pistol’s character.
Bardolph and Nym had ten times more valor than this roaring devil i’ th’ old play, that everyone may pare his nails with a wooden dagger, and they are both hanged, and so would this be if he durst steal anything adventurously.
So that’s not only Bardolph dead, but Nym as well. Dagnabbit. The Boy goes on to say it’s his job now to guard the English supplies, along with all the other boys, and he hopes the French don’t realize what a poor guard that will be.
—
ACT IV, SCENE V
Meanwhile, on the French side, the French nobles are losing. Badly. But they consider the loss of their dignity to be worse than the loss of their lives, and resolve to die fighting.
—
ACT IV, SCENE VI
The King enters with a load of French prisoners, and announces the battle is all but won on the English side. Exeter arrives to tell King Henry that both York and the Earl of Suffolk have died, but they did so after fighting damn bravely in battle, and York comforted Suffolk in his final moments.
Exeter: […]
So did he turn, and over Suffolk’s neck
He threw his wounded arm and kissed his lips,
And so, espoused to death, with blood he sealed
A testament of noble-ending love.
The pretty and sweet manner of it forced
Those waters from me which I would have stopped,
But I had not so much of man in me,
And all my mother came into mine eyes
And gave me up to tears.
The description is enough to make King Henry cry, too.
The feelings jam is interrupted by a mustering of French forces out on the battlefield. King Henry’s response?
King Henry: […]
The French have reinforced their scattered men.
Then every soldier kill his prisoners.
Give the word through.
Well, fuck.
—
ACT IV, SCENE VII
Fluellen and Gower are back! Fluellen is cursing the French’s latest aggression: the killing of all the boys guarding the English supplies.
…fuck.
Fluellen goes on to compare King Henry V to Alexander the Great.
Fluellen:
Ay, he was porn at Monmouth, Captain Gower. What call you the town’s name where Alexander the Pig was born?
Gower:
Alexander the Great.
Fluellen:
Why, I pray you, is not “pig” great? The pig, or the great, or the mighty, or the huge, or the magnanimous, are all one reckonings, save the phrase is a little variations.
Ha ha, Welsh accents.
Fluellen:
[…] If you mark Alexander’s life well, Harry of Monmouth’s life is come after it indifferent well, for there is figures in all things. Alexander, God knows and you know, in his rages and his furies and his wraths and his cholers and his moods and his displeasures and his indignations, and also being a little intoxicates in his prains, did, in his ales and his angers, look you, kill his best friend, Cleitus.
Gower:
Our king is not like him in that. He never killed any of his friends.
HA. HA. HA. Fluellen agrees with me.
Fluellen:
It is not well done, mark you now, to take the tales out of my mouth ere it is made and finished. I speak but in the figures and comparisons of it. As Alexander killed his friend Cleitus, being in his ales and his cups, so also Harry Monmouth, being in his right wits and his good judgments, turned away the fat knight with the great-belly doublet; he was full of jests and gipes and knaveries and mocks––I have forgot his name.
Gower:
Sir John Falstaff.
Now you get it. (Bardolph goes unmentioned; Poins, as you might have noticed, has already been entirely forgotten.)
King Henry comes in with his entourage, and he is royally pissed at the Frenchmen still remaining on the field. Montjoy the herald returns.
King Henry:
How now, what means this, herald? Know’st thou not
That I have fined these bones of mine for ransom?
Com’st thou again for ransom?
For once, it’s not ransom. The French just want permission to retrieve their dead from the field. King Henry asks for confirmation of the French’s surrender, and Montjoy gives it. The Battle of Agincourt is won by England! Three cheers all around!
Fluellen takes advantage of the opportunity to become BFFs with the King, reminding him that they are both Welshman, though one has a considerably thicker accent than the other.
Just then, who should happen by but good ol’ Williams. King Henry calls him over and questions him about the glove he’s wearing in his hat. Williams explains the punching vow he made with Harry le Roy. King Henry asks Fluellen what he thinks of it; Fluellen replies that both soldiers must keep to this oath or be cowards. King Henry decrees that Williams must keep his vow, and sends him off to fetch Captain Gower.
Once Williams is gone, King Henry takes out Williams’ glove and gives it to Fluellen. He claims he stole it off a French noble, and any man recognizing it must be a traitor. He asks that Fluellen wear this glove in his cap, to help the King sniff out disloyal subjects. Fluellen jumps at the opportunity to prove himself, and the King sends him off to fetch Captain Gower. I facepalm. Then King Henry calls over Warwick and Gloucester.
King Henry:
My Lord of Warwick and my brother Gloucester,
Follow Fluellen closely at the heels.
The glove which I have given him for a favor
May haply purchase him a box o’ th’ ear.
It is the soldier’s. I by bargain should
Wear it myself.
Yes. Yes you should. Why aren’t you?
Follow, good cousin Warwick.
If that soldier strike him, as I judge
By his blunt bearing he will keep his word,
Some sudden mischief may arise of it,
For I do know Fluellen valiant
And, touched with choler, hot as gunpowder,
Ans quickly will return an injury.
Follow, and seet her be no harm between them.––
Go you with me, uncle of Exeter.
In short, you can take the King out of Eastcheap, but you can’t take the Eastcheap out of the King. Oh, Hal.
—
ACT IV, SCENE VIII
Gower and Williams are already discussing of the King’s request to see Gower––
Williams:
I warrant it is to knight you, captain.
––when Fluellen comes in, glove in cap. Williams points to the King’s glove in his own cap and asks if Fluellen recognizes it. Fluellen does not, but that doesn’t stop Williams from giving him a good ol’ punch in the face. Fluellen immediately declares Williams to be a traitor, as per the King’s instructions, and everything descends into wacky, wacky chaos. Warwick and Gloucester arrive to prevent them from killing each other until the King himself enters.
King Henry, in full-on Prince Hal mode, asks what all the commotion is about. Williams explains that Fluellen wears the glove of the man he vowed to fight; Fluellen says the glove belonged to the French noble and asks the King to back him up. The King ignores Fluellen and confesses that, yes, the glove Williams is wearing belongs to him. He chastises Williams for speaking so harshly to him when they met that night. Fluellen believes Williams should be executed for it. Williams protests.
Williams:
All offenses, my lord, come from the heart. Never came any from mine that might offend your Majesty.
King Henry:
It was ourself thou didst abuse.
Williams:
Your Majesty came not like yourself. You appeared to me but as a common man; witness the night, your garments, your lowliness. And what your Highness suffered under that shape, I beseech you take it for your own fault and not mine, for, had you been as I took you for, I made no offense. Therefore, I beseech your Highness pardon me.
Trans.: “Dude, you told me you were a soldier serving under Erpingham. How the fuck was I supposed to know you were the King? How can you possibly blame me for threatening the King when for all I knew you were a common schmuck like me?”
The King concedes his point and gives Williams the glove back, stuffed with gold. He also demands that Fluellen be friends with Williams. Fluellen, ever eager to serve his King, also offers Williams money, but Williams turns it down. Fluellen persists, saying Williams could use it to fix his shoes, and boy, do those shoes ever need fixing.
An English herald arrives with the list of dead. Apparently ten thousand Frenchmen kicked it, a hundred and twenty-six of them nobles. The English dead number only twenty-five, plus four dudes whose names the King actually recognizes. All told, a damn good day for the English. King Henry gives all credit for the victory to God on high. For that matter, he forbids anyone else to take credit away from God, on pain of death. Because medieval people and religion, that’s why.
—
*To celebrate Saint Davy’s day (March 1), Welshmen wear leeks in their caps. Because why the hell not?
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