 Ahead of state, an arbiter of justice, and a divine authority all in one, monarchs in medieval Europe were symbols of ultimate power. With great wealth and even greater responsibility, many ruled as warrior kings winning dramatic battlefield victories, except those who were felled in catastrophic defeats. Many more proved themselves worthy and just administrators, expiring after a long and successful reign. Others yet were found to be brutal tyrants, often meeting death at the end of a dagger. Yet, no matter how they chose to rule, they all met their end. To quote words once written by William Shakespeare, Within the hollow crown that rounds the mortal temples of a king keeps death his court. While many kings have come and gone, few are more venerated than King Henry V of England. You might know some of his achievements. The Battle of Agincourt may be the Treaty of Troy, but who was he really? What about his dark side, the side not captured by the heroic Shakespearean portrayal? What led to his tragic and untimely demise, a death which shook England to its core and set the stage for years of future conflict? Well viewer, join me as we honor the life of Henry V by demystifying his legend. Join me as we see how King Henry kept death his court. Join me as we sit upon the ground and tell sad stories of the death of Kingis. A man sat solemnly under a golden canopy and atop an ancient throne. He had been eager to feel the imprint of a bejeweled crown on his cropped chocolate hair, and now it was finally Henry's time. His frame was sleek, but he was not untested. His face was youthful, but it was not unscarred. An untempered fire raged beneath his deep blue eyes, one that captured the attention of his peers. He was here today because not long ago, and not far away, a king had died, another Henry. He let his mind slip away for a moment, hearkening back to that other Henry, his father. Henry IV, once called Henry balling broke, had usurped the throne from the tyrant Richard II. His grip on the crown was firm, but his grip on the realm was not. Soon enough, his problems became his son's problems. As early as his mid-teens, the younger Henry was on cleanup duty while his father struggled with his health. When Harry Hotspur rebelled, he was there. When the Welsh took their shot at independence, he was there. After years, some of these problems were still not solved. It wouldn't be that way for long. Henry's side. Not everything was so bad between him and his father, but perhaps slipping from this life had been the best thing he had ever done for the realm. His drifting thoughts were broken by the sound of approaching footsteps. Two bishops came towards him, one carrying an eagle-shaped ampoula. Finally, Henry thought, holy oil poured from the ampoula into a spoon. Muddering some Latin prayers, one bishop dipped his fingers into the oil and ran them across Henry's arms, chest, and head. Oil which had dawned the heads of dozens of kings passed. The most sacred ritual in this drawn-out process was complete. He was anointed. He had been chosen by God, and now he was gifted with guidance from the Holy Spirit. It was finally time to get his crown. Henry O Henry, the courageous lion. Now king of England, Wales, and all their domains. He set his agenda and the work went quickly, prosperity and unity for all his reign. He gave amnesty to the Welsh and the rubbles of the north, who despite their grievances did not complain. The bones of Richard II were honoured and entombed at Westminster, where to this day they remain. With England behind him, Henry turned his eyes to France, specifically Normandy, Anjou, and Mann. But there was danger, Henry's line was new to the throne, and some felt Edmund Mortimer had the better claim. Amidst his brothers, John, Humphrey, and Thomas, the king had spent the waking hours of the last several weeks preparing. Drawing up strategies, issuing orders of assembly and organising supplies, they were in for the adventure of a lifetime. The danger was perilous, they would be across the sea, away from home and in hostile territory, but the potential rewards made it all worthwhile. England and France had been at war on and off for the better part of the last century. Four generations of English kings had waged this war, but Henry made it his mission to be the last. After all, who is anyone to deny his claim to the French throne, a claim backed by centuries of cultural and historical zeitgeist? Your Highness, a guard interrupted. It's Edmund Mortimer. He claims he must see you at once. He says it can't wait. Henry rolled his eyes. What now? What could possibly be more important than an actual war? Well, I suppose we can spare a moment. Send him in. Lord Mortimer, I have been told you have something to say. My king, I have a confession to make. Mortimer, if this is something your priest can handle, I am going to be extremely unhappy. Collapsing to his knees as though he were weighted by a thousand pounds, Mortimer began to wail uncontrollably. Mercy, my lord's mercy, I swear to you, I didn't know. It came to you as soon as I learned I'm not involved with them, please mercy. The sudden outburst came at a shock to the brothers. They shifted uncomfortably, their eyes drifting back and forth from each other. I've been made aware of certain treasons against your Highness. Men have been plotting on your life. They approached, saying they wanted me to be king, asserting I have the better claim. Please, I'm not involved in this treachery. You must believe me. The king's eye began to twitch. Tell me, who is behind this? Which men approached you? Mortimer averted his eyes from the king's dreadful stare. There were, there were three of them. Sir Thomas Gray, Scrope, the Baron Scrope, and, and Richard, Earl of Cambridge. Bloody cousins, the king thought. You give up everything for family, only to receive a knife in the back. Rise, Mortimer. You did the right thing. I won't hold you to account for their sins. I only have one request. Fetch the local bailiff on your way out. I have an assignment for him. The three traitors were swiftly caught and hauled before the court. Their guilt was beyond a reasonable doubt. And let it be known that the three accused shall suffer the fate of all traitors of... Clemency. Please, Clemency. Richard of House York, Earl of Cambridge stumbled forward. We did it, okay? We did it. Guilty. Is that what you wanted to hear? It's clear we were horribly mistaken. My liege, I beg you. I beg you for forgiveness as your vassal and as your cousin. Please, Clemency. I have a young son who needs me. The king rose slowly, composed and ready to deliver his verdict. Gentlemen, let it be known I am not without a tender heart. Your plea is moving, cousin Richard, as is your, uh, inspiring dedication to family. You'll find a faithful friend in me yet. Your sentences are commuted. The three conspirators breathed a collective sigh of relief. But some punishment is in order, wouldn't you say? Instead of suffering death by hanging, drawing and quartering that would be customary, I think, hmm, beheading will suffice. Very gracious of me, I know, but no need to send your thanks. Oh, and executioner, when you've finished, send their heads back to their home courts on spikes. The room erupted into chaos as the three distraught men were dragged away. Their calamitous appeals echoed through the building, but their words were mumbled and distant to Henry. They had delayed him long enough. Now it was time to sail for France, a month, a month since they had landed in Normandy, a month of cannon shots tearing across the sky, a month of dysentery pillaging the English camps, a month that felt more like a decade. How could things have possibly gone so wrong? After a month, the town of Harfleur finally surrendered. Henry was at a loss for words. He had already lost countless men, not to battle, but to disease. The French had raised a large army and there was no telling when they would arrive. He was exhausted, everyone was exhausted, sick and tired of writhing around in this hellscape. There was only one decision for Henry to make. The city of Calais was under English control. It had walls, beds and food. The perfect place to recuperate for the winter. The army set out. They marched in the day. They camped in the night. They made it far, but not far enough. The French caught them near a place called Agincourt. Outnumbered two, maybe even three to one, Henry was about to face his greatest challenge yet. No one had slept. Everyone had been drenched by yesterday's downpour. Between two forests, the English longbowmen began to set up their defenses. Thick logs and sharpened stakes protecting them to their front. They knew if the French horsemen caught them in the open, they'd be ground to dust. In the center stood the valiant men at arms, ready to hold the line against any attack. The ground began to quiver, steadily growing to a tremble as the moments passed. The men felt the reverberations in their chests as the accompanying sound of galloping grew louder. Here they come, a sergeant shouted. Their lines bustled with frantic activity. Longbowmen were rushing into places quickly as they could, hands shaking as they knocked their arrows. Finally, the order came, draw, loose. Volley after volley, arrows were launched off the bows and hurled towards the charging French knights. Some clanged and snapped on their pristine armor, but the horses were not so lucky. The French steeds began crumbling into the ground with each shot, their riders tumbling into the mud in turn. Minutes passed, which seemed like hours. The living French horses scrambled away in fear, totally out of control. Growns and cries of suffocating men trapped beneath their horses emanated across the ghastly field. The French footmen followed this catastrophe. They trudged through the mud, constantly harried by arrows. By the time they reached the English lines, the ones who had not been shot were exhausted. There was nothing fair about this fight. Spears were thrusted, hammers and axes were heaved, armor was split, bones were crushed and flesh was brutally hacked away. It was too much to handle. Too tired to run, the French surrendered with the hopes of clemency, but Henry wanted to send a clear message. He ordered his new prisoners slaughtered in open view, almost to a man. Seeing the fates of their unlucky comrades, the French didn't dare attack again. The battle was over, and by manifesting the stuff of nightmares, Henry had earned perhaps the most decisive victory in nearly a century of warfare. King Henry arrived in Calais and later returned to England to the sound of jubilant applause. News of his victory had spread across the land. The country was hopeful for the future and poised to continue the fight. New war taxes were granted and King Henry was quick to drop his new invasion plan, but the nightmarish hellscape of Agincourt had deeper consequences. In an ironic twist of fate, many of those killed at Agincourt were not simply levied lowborns, but the crème de la crème of French nobility. With their leadership lying dead on a muddy field, all hell was about to break loose in France. Drops of water fell from the wooden ceiling and splattered across the floor. It was unusual for such disarray in the courtly estates of Burgundy, but these were unusual times. Duke John had other matters on his mind. A terrible battle had seen many of his fellow French noblemen cut down, many of his fiercest enemies. In his life, he had earned the nickname John the Fearless, but it wasn't his bravery that led to him becoming one of the most powerful men in France, it was his machinations. He didn't quite know what to make of the situation, but did know it brought tempting opportunities. Sure, John had his shortcomings with the English, but they did good business. Their merchants were honest and his flummist subjects needed their wool trade. On the other hand, his greatest detractors were right here in France. This is the time to strike, he thought to himself. Paris is open for me to take control. This will be easy. Those full armeniax spent all that time trying to control the king, only to end up killed over in some miserable field. They should have killed me when they had the chance. Now their chickens are coming home to roost. It was time once again to set sights for Paris. His mind began to wander to the last few times he had been in the city. Nothing but mischief. For the last decade, the realm had been torn apart by his scheming. Murders, arrests, executions and riots had all come from the conniving fingertips of Duke John. The more he thought of his malfeasances, the more frustration began to well up in the Duke's mind and the justifications rolled in. Don't can blame me. The king is incapable, he needs guidance and the crown needs capable leadership. If it weren't for those armeniax, none of this would be necessary. I only needed the Duke stopped himself. He knew ruminating on past events would consume him. I only need to think to the future. Think of my rights, Paris. The kingdom of France was tearing itself apart. King Charles VI had been struck with madness from an early age. Now approaching his fifties, he was barely ever lucid. He periodically had violent outbursts, refused to bathe or change his clothes for months at a time and occasionally believed he was made of glass. Here's the problem. Medieval politics revolved around the monarch. There was no way a kingdom could sustain itself for long under these conditions. With such an unstable king, political instability was sure to follow and so it had. Duke John of Burgundy had tried to rule as regent but was always opposed by his cousins in Orléans and armeniax. Factious divides between the Burgundians and armeniax became entrenched as King Charles Madness worsened. Now after many of the armeniax had been slain at Agincourt, the fifth and only surviving son of Charles the Mad found himself the new Dauphin and new leader of the armeniax faction. On the run, surrounded by enemies. Dauphin, the last of our bannerettes have arrived from Paris. We're ready to march on your command. Dauphin, it's inconceivable, sir, that our kingdom should be invaded by another only for our own countrymen to evict us from the royal court. Simply inconceivable. They'll be brought to heel. It's only a matter of time. Spare me your platitudes. Have you not read the reports? The English King captures more of Normandy by the day. Instead of marching to face him, we've been chased out of the capital by a Burgundian mob. Do you not understand what a humiliation they've brought us? My, my apologies, my liege. No, I'm the one who should apologize. You've been a loyal soldier. Remind yourself, sir, things will not be so easy. As we speak, the Burgundians consider supporting Henry's claim to our throne. If John the Fearless continues to stand in our way, all will be lost. I see. Well, what can we do? You can start by fetching me something to write with. Something to write with? Yes, don't you see? John the Fearless is the key player here. We must not allow him to do anything rash. Unfortunately, to do so, we must make certain gestures to him. Make him feel at ease, so yes, I require something to write with. Of course, Dauphin. As the months passed, King Henry's new invasion continued to gain traction and John the Fearless continued to entertain his claim, but the Burgundian Duke had still not declared for him. As the Dauphin sent his letters pleading French unity, the good Duke John appeared a bit less intractable. Time passed, tempers had cooled, and meetings were set. Maybe there was a chance for reconciliation. The first leaves of autumn had begun to cover the ground as a cool September breeze scattered them across Montereau's cobbled streets. The sky seemed oddly pale. Its lingering presence made Duke John feel uneasy, or maybe it was his reasons for being here which made him uncomfortable. Who could know? This is it, my lord. We are here. This is the bridge. Yes. And it looks like the Dauphin is already here. John let out a nervous breath. Malige, please don't meet the Dauphin alone. Allow me to accompany you the entire way. I have a bad feeling about this. Tell me, what is it the people of the realm call me? John the Fearless? The Fearless, exactly. Remember that next time. Besides, it would be seen as a sign of disrespect for you to come. I've handled better men than this petulant child of a prince. Trust me to handle this too. As you wish. As his bold words tumbled out of his mouth, he was filled with the confidence he lacked a moment prior. Deep down, he knew this confidence was false. They crossed a hastily constructed barricade on the bridge and the royal entourage came into view. The Duke began to walk forward, leaving his retinue behind. His stomach began to twist into knots. Each step drained his confidence though a thousand needles had pierced his skin, emptying more of his blood by the second. Your Highness, thank you for gracing me with your presence today. I, uh, it delighted me to receive your communication since our last meeting. I'm hopeful our differences can be resolved. Right. Well, shall we begin our discussion? Something was wrong. John had made a mistake coming here. The anxiety was breaking him. Seeking any kind of reassurance, he fumbled his hand over the hilt of his sword. An Arminyak knight snapped. You dare reach for your repay in the presence of his royal highness, the Dauphin. Before the Duke could respond, another man leapt forward, ax in hand. John had walked into a trap, but there was no time to digest that realization. The axman had already struck him, leaving a deep gash on his face. The Duke stumbled back in pain, raising one hand instinctively to cover his face and the other to ward off his attackers. Whoa, stop! What are you doing? He pleaded, but it was futile. This was the signal for attack, and a dozen more men had rushed in to finish the job as the Dauphin looked onto his cruel makings with casual indifference. John the Fearless would not be getting out of this one. John the Fearless's machinations had finally come full circle. The good Duke of Burgundy found himself in a pickle. He arrived at the scene looking to settle his part. To the town of Montereau under its banners and sigil, he waited on the Dauphin for negotiations to start. But his Arminyak foes proved to be devious and fickle, and John the Fearless took a dagger to the heart. Oh, a shame. And for the cheeky Prince Charles, so sneaky and clever, declared the Duke's scheming was over and done. Thinking their issues were settled forever, the Arminyaks left believing they'd won. With the Dauphin and his cadre failed to consider, is that violence begets violence, and there's always a son. French politics were profoundly shaken. The Dauphin may have thought he was defending the realm by ridding himself of John the Fearless, but he couldn't have been more wrong. Instead of unifying with the Burgundians, their conflict had reached a critical point. The new Duke of Burgundy, John the Fearless's son, a young man named Philip, declared his full support for King Henry VIII just weeks after coming to power. Together unstoppable, Henry marched his army to Paris and took custody of King Charles the Mad. Over the next weeks, Henry finalized his ultimate victory. With Philip by his side, a treaty was formed. Henry would marry the Mad King's daughter, Catherine de Valois, and be named heir and regent of France. The beleaguered French Queen, who was sick of it all, rubber stamped the treaty and sent them on their way. When the old and sick Charles the Mad died, Henry would become the new King of France. The disinherited Dauphin was back on the run, now more defeated than ever, but thousands of Frenchmen flocked to support his claim. The war was far from over. Henry however, was tired and weary. Years of war had taken their toll. He left his brothers in charge of the front to tour England with his newfound bride. Henry, you look troubled. What's wrong, my dear? The King gestured to a letter resting on the table. We received this missive this morning. As Catherine began to read the letter, Henry's dismay quickly made sense. Oh, Thomas, Henry, I'm so sorry. He was my little brother, barely out of his 20s. To think of him being slaughtered on the field of battle as I sat here enjoying the comforts of home, I can't bear it. Knowing where this was going, Catherine's heart sank. Please don't go back there. The war has been so heavy on you already. I must. I am a King, and it's a King's duty to lead men into battle. Henry. I cannot stay here as your brother continues to- Henry, listen to me, I'm with child. The King reeled in silence at a loss for words as though he'd been struck by a thousand arrows. I-I thought you'd be more excited. No. No, I am. It's-it's just so much to take in at once. Please don't go. Ah, I'm afraid I don't have a choice. You must understand this war must be fought, and no one else can do it. I promise I will return to your side. Our child will want for nothing. If you must. And so Henry V sailed for France, keen on avenging the death of his brother and ending the war once and for all. This time war wouldn't be so easy. They marched to the city of Moe and began a siege intent on starving the town into surrender. Summer turned to autumn, autumn to winter, and winter slogged on until finally spring had come. After the last dregs of snow had cleared, Moe surrendered, but the arduous siege would claim a final victim. King Henry's exhaustion had reached its peak. Years of war had taken their toll, and after leaving Moe behind, he felt worse than ever. He laid down to rest, but upon waking, his face was hot to the touch and he hardly had the energy to move. Physicians were called, but deep in his mind, he knew his fate had been sealed. This type of disease was common among the soldiery and had always had one outcome. Death. But death, master of all mankind, would not come quickly. The agonizing days turned to weeks, the weeks to months until finally, in August of 1422, at the age of 35, Henry was spared his torment. The kingdom of England greeted this unwelcome news with shock. Shocked most of all was Queen Catherine, who wept aside her now nine-month-old son, named after his father. The younger Henry would never know the elder, but he would intimately know the legacy he left. He inherited his father's riches, but also his problems, problems which were as great in magnitude as they were in number. A short time later, King Charles the Mad of France passed away, passing his crown to the young Henry, making him the ruler of two kingdoms. Only time would tell how he would manage them. He's sleeping, isn't he cute? It's ironic, in a way, that one of England's most venerated kings would suffer the same fate as many of his lowest-born subjects. It's ironic how the whimsical wheel of death punishes both the richest and poorest of men with equal capriciousness. But aren't these some of the greatest ironies in life? We must honor the dances we all do. Some may dance in elegant waltz, while others dance a fiery tango. We must appreciate the beauty and difference of each dance, but have respect for the inevitable conclusion. However you choose to move about the floor, eventually the music will end, and your dance will be over. As it was over for Henry V. As we remember the life of King Henry and honor him as a great man, let us not forget that thousands of lives ended on his orders and under his hand. He was brutal, relentlessly brutal, lacking an ounce of compassion in his entire body. And to what end were these lives lost? While his tireless pursuit of the war was certainly met with much success, at what cost did the success come? At the end of his life, the kingdom was financially exhausted. The memory of Agincourt had grown distant, and the enthusiasm to wage this expensive war began to falter. Suddenly Parliament was dragging their feet when it came to financing new military campaigns. This deeply indebted kingdom was tasked with controlling France, a much larger kingdom whose people did not want to be controlled. They were embroiled in further war as a result. Now in 1422, the person who inherited England's multitude of problems was a nine month old infant. Henry's death could not have been worse timed, but in terms of his legacy, perhaps his death could not have been better timed. Perhaps death, coming at such a young age, served to cement his legacy at its peak. Maybe we remember him as being great because he simply did not have enough time to fail. If you enjoyed the video, share it with a friend so they can enjoy it too. To support the channel, join my Patreon linked in the description where you can get access to exclusive content. And be sure to check out the Discord where we can interact. Take care, viewer.