Portrait of Henry IV- National Portrait Gallery (Creative Commons license)
Before everything went wrong, Henry Bolingbroke had the most enviable life imaginable. Eldest son of the most important Duke in England, given unlimited financial resources, father of four sons and two daughters, allowed to gallivant across Europe—what more could a man ask for? Unfortunately, it all came to a screeching halt when Henry and Thomas Mowbray had a very public falling out and gave King Richard the excuse to exile both of them.
Why the exile? Aside from the fact that Henry and Richard never got along, Henry was one of the Appellants who challenged the king during the terrible Merciless Parliament back in 1388. Richard never forgave him, though he pretended to, in order to appease his father John of Gaunt. But, presented with the famous Trial by Combat that never happened, Richard couldn’t resist the opportunity and exiled both contestants—Mowbray for life, and Henry for ten years (reduced to six).
Henry might have accepted his exile, but once John of Gaunt died, Richard confiscated Bolingbroke’s Lancastrian titles, lands, and goods, to be held in trust, “until Henry of Lancaster, duke of Hereford, or his heir, shall have sued the same out of the king’s hands according to the law of the land or have another grant from the king”. What does this mean? Historians can’t agree, but it implies Henry might return at some point. Or maybe Richard meant for Henry’s son to claim it. There is also no consensus that Bolingbroke was exiled for life.
Regardless, Henry decided to take matters into his own hands, with the ardent encouragement from the exiled Archbishop Arundel, who took on all the “grunt work” involved in returning to England. In fact, I have a sneaking suspicion that without Arundel’s persistence, Henry might not have had the gumption to make it all happen. It was certainly an intimidating concept, considering that Henry was threatened with execution if he returned.
But return he did, after Richard took a small army to Ireland, leaving England in the hands of his irresolute uncle, the Duke of York. Henry ultimately landed at Bridlington, in Yorkshire with a small following and three ships. Imagine his surprise when Harry Hotspur coincidentally appeared at his doorstep, just to investigate the new arrivals; he happened to be in the neighborhood.
This was a make-it-or-break-it moment. Hotspur was the son of Henry Percy, Earl of Northumberland. He was also Warden of the East March of Scotland, and he was well within his rights to arrest Henry on the spot, putting an end to the fledgling invasion. But the Percies were disgruntled with King Richard. Besides, everyone knew what had happened to Bolingbroke. If the heir of Lancaster could be treated in such a manner, no one was safe.
And so it began. It didn’t take long for Henry to gather a strong following and march west. Did he only intend to recover his patrimony at this early stage? Historians have argued over this for centuries. Sure, he could have recovered his birthright, but what then? He certainly insisted that this was his only motivation, and many people believed it—especially Harry Hotspur. When Henry confronted the Duke of York, he continued to insist he had only returned to recover the Duchy of Lancaster, though by then his words were beginning to sound unconvincing.
Immediately after York gave in and joined the rebellion, they went to Bristol and Henry ordered the execution of LeScrope, Bushy, and Green. Was this the action of a duke, or did it belong to a king? Shortly thereafter—and well before Richard’s capture—Percy was getting quarrelsome and needed appeasing, so Henry appointed him Warden of the March toward Scotland. This satisfied the earl for the moment. Though once again, Henry overstepped his authority; only the king appointed the Wardens.
Richard II and Henry at Flint, MS BL Harley 1319 f.50
By the time Richard had been captured, it was more than obvious that the king had no support whatsoever. The way Henry treated him pretty much betrayed their relative positions. The king was given no change of clothing, made to ride a broken-down horse, and was locked up tight in whatever place they stayed on the way to London. And everywhere they went, the populace cheered Henry as their liberator. Who could resist such acclaim?
You could almost say Henry was forced to usurp the crown. He knew that if he released Richard, there would be no forgiveness. The king would eventually have him tried for treason—or murdered, like the Duke of Gloucester. He had to take the crown, to save himself. Was there any time in this whole episode where he could safely reclaim his patrimony? Before he had gone too far? I suspect not. Was he fooling himself? Again, I suspect not. But he needed to convince others to follow him, and he used the argument best devised to relieve their consciences—especially the Percies. Unfortunately, his best intentions backfired and his former supporters eventually became his bitterest enemies.
I’m working on my tenth book right now, and late in the process I concluded something that never occurred to me until now. The closer we get to the present day in our novel, the more we are locked into real historical details. Of course, that’s a double-edged sword. On the one side, I don’t have to worry about concocting a plot. The story line is already done for me. On the other side, I’m constrained by historical accuracy—or at least, what passes for accuracy. Unless I’m writing alternative fiction, I can’t change the course of events.
The way I see it, there are three kinds of Historical Fiction authors: the first writes about a totally made-up character in a historical setting, which frees up the author to do anything they like, within reason. The second type of historical novel centers on a character related to a historic person, like a spouse, younger brother, favorite comrade, or servant—that sort of thing. This author will often touch on events, and is also free to create a totally fabricated parallel story. The third type of historical novel is more of a biographical fiction, usually about a king or famous person. This requires a ton of research and dedication to veracity. As you may have guessed, I ascribe to the third option.
My first four books covered the eleventh century, where we have a maddening dearth of historical information. We have the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle, which gave us little paragraphs that left a lot to the imagination. When you consider that the Bayeux Tapestry is our major source about the Battle of Hastings, as well as a chronicle written about fifty years after the fact (Orderic Vitalis), and another written a hundred years later (Wace, Roman de Rou), we—or rather, historians—really have to extrapolate. Everybody seemed to have a different opinion. That gave me a lot of head-scratching, but allowed the creative juices to flow.
My last several books are about Plantagenet kings starting with Richard II. As expected, the period I am writing about is much more expansively documented. And now I’m up to Henry V. He reigned six hundred years ago, still long enough in the past that one would think I’d have plenty of “blank spaces” to fill in with my imagination. Fat chance! It seems that Henry couldn’t take a nap without someone making note of it. And there doesn’t seem to be as much disagreement between historians as to what happened.
Young Henry V – Wikipedia
Well, OK, I exaggerate a tad. But the point is, it seems his reign was more closely documented than ever before. And frankly, I got stuck. Why? Because I’m locked in to a timeline that is not particularly interesting. I want to write about Henry’s life, since most people know little about him past the Battle of Agincourt. Alas, much of his later story consisted of a long series of interminable sieges. And, for the most part, sieges were boring. We do get an occasional bout of stimulating action, thank goodness.
Unfortunately, there’s a lot of uninteresting stuff tying it all together. If I’m bored with it, I certainly can’t make it stimulating to my readers.
So what’s an author to do? Can I just jump from one high point to another? It’s very tempting. Can I do that without losing the continuity? Not really. I like to compare my novel-writing to building a human body. The first draft is the skeleton. I concentrate on the historical events, which involves the most extensive research. I don’t spend much time worrying about personalities and storyline. I think of my second draft as the muscles and sinews. The history is in place. I can concentrate on tying the events together, and figuring out why something happened, and how. Connect the dots, I like to say. The third draft is the skin and makeup. I can concentrate on the human interest, and this draft usually lightens things up for me. I can add further dialogue and throw in motivations, giving more dimension to my protagonist’s character. That stuff becomes filler, but I am writing fiction after all. This is what separates us from the historian, who doesn’t have the license to dive into a person’s brain.
This time around, I have yet to get through the first draft. It’s just dragging for me. One potential solution is yet more research. I’ve starting buying books that tell the history from the French point of view, which is definitely a different angle. It doesn’t hurt that the French civil war and violent rioting in Paris impacts heavily on the English army’s progress. Those activities got me halfway through the book. I just have to figure out how to keep it up!
A further potential solution is to give another historical person more prominence than I normally do. The interaction between Henry V and Philip the Good, for instance, is not unimportant. And what about the Dauphin, the future Charles VII who makes such a mess of things when he has John the Fearless murdered? Oh yes, that is pretty juicy. So, perhaps as an author, I need to crawl out of my comfort zone and do something different. Expand the perspective rather than make up more filler. After all, my ultimate goal is to make history more interesting to the reader, and to do so, it has to be entertaining to me. I’m a firm believer that this is possible. I just hope I have the skill to do it.
Brooch made of gold, rubies and sapphires, 1250-1300, Wikimedia
Medieval jewellery is mostly found in museums these days – bold gold rings and religious pendants. Antique jewellery from the 18th and 19th century, set with a wider range of gems and using various techniques, is more available to buy and wear.
Some of this is down to how many people lived in the British Isles in medieval times compared to the mid 18th century onwards. The population grew from only a couple of million in the medieval period (with wars and plague taking their toll), to 10 million in the mid 18th century and 30 million by the mid 19th. So there was just a lot less jewellery made in medieval times.
Of course back then, only the rich and powerful wore jewellery. Monarchs had their crowns, chains and rings. High ranking clergy were often wealthy, wearing signet rings and enamelled crosses. Knights would have heraldic rings to show allegiances and to seal documents. By the late middle ages, wealthy merchants might also have chains and rings.
Gold earring from early 14th c. – Wikimedia
But it wasn’t just wealth that determined all this – sumptuary laws dictated who was allowed to wear what. These laws prohibited non-nobles from wearing gold and gemstones. In Elizabethan England, purple, along with silk and certain furs, was reserved for the Royal Family and their immediate relatives. The wearing of jewellery only became more commonplace later on – fuelled by the success of the British Empire at gathering resources from around the world.
Techniques evolve and are reborn
Even though there were relatively few of them, medieval craftsmen were highly skilled.
Champlevé enamelling, for instance, flourished in the 12th century, particularly in Limoges, France. Recesses were carved into a metal surface and filled with enamel powder, which was fired to fuse. The technique added vibrant colour and was used to represent saints, heraldic devices and Christian symbols. These techniques faded by the 15th century but re-emerged in different forms. And by the 1800s, enamellers began using machine etching and chemical etching (acid) rather than entirely hand-carved cells. Even the tutti frutti aesthetic of the Art Deco period could be said to share the traits of color blocking and surface decoration.
Diamonds were rarely used in early medieval jewellery due to their hardness and scarcity. However, the late Middle Ages marked the beginning of 500 years of diamond modification in Europe. Modern diamond cutting techniques that bring out the gems’ brilliance and fire were developed gradually between the 15th and early 20th century. The modern round brilliant cut was only finalised around WW1.
Medieval garnet single-stone ring
Gem cutting in the Middle Ages was more rudimentary. Before jewellers invented faceting techniques, cabochon cutting, where gems were shaped and polished into smooth, domed forms, was the main approach. This method preserved as much of the original stone as possible and was ideal for showcasing the natural translucency or colour of gems like garnet, sapphire, and amethyst. Because optical science wasn’t well developed, the aim was not brilliance and sparkle but symbolism, durability, and surface richness.
Despite this, it was the (very) late middle ages that kick started the timeline of how jewellers approach diamonds. In the late 15th century, the point and table cuts emerged in Europe, with basic polishing of natural octahedral diamonds. Two key new cuts emerged in the 18th to 19th Century – the old mine cut from the early 1700s (squarish shape with a high crown and small table) and then the old European cut (early-mid 1800s): rounder, with better symmetry, deeper pavilion, and the start of optimising for brilliance. It was in the early 20th century that today’s industry standard was developed, the modern round brilliant cut with 57 or 58 facets.
An open work flower, set with rose-cut diamonds in silver and step-cut emeralds in gold from 1790.
Despite these improvements, there was a revival of interest in cabochons in the Art Nouveau and Edwardian periods in the late 19th and early 20th century, especially for moonstones and opals. They remain popular today.
Granulation was another technique that was revived in the 19th century archaeological renaissance. Medieval jewellers would fuse tiny metal granules onto a surface to form patterns. It was an ancient Etruscan technique, preserved by medieval artisans with many goldsmithing techniques passed through ecclesiastical workshops.
Likewise, filigree was used extensively by Georgian jewellers. They would twist fine wire and solder it into lace-like motifs. This technique had been introduced to medieval Europe via both trade and conquest.
Finally, repoussé remained popular across the centuries. The technique raises designs by hammering from the back. It was widespread across Europe for both religious and personal jewellery and continued throughout Georgian and Edwardian pieces. Those periods also saw interest in Cameo carvings, a very different method but the equivalent stone aesthetic of metal work’s repousse.
Recurring themes: nature, heraldry and mortality
It wasn’t just techniques that were rooted in the early second millennium, but many of the themes and motifs of later accessories.
Georgian carved crest intaglio ring from around 1790.
Heraldic symbols served a purpose in medieval times – coats of arms and family badges on signet rings and brooches were used to assert identity and allegiance. Georgian jewellery embraced the theme with crest rings and armorial intaglios (seals with heraldic details but largely shorn of their original meaning). In Victorian and Edwardian times, heraldic motifs were preserved in signet rings, fobs, and seal pendants, especially in aristocratic circles.
Nature and garden imagery was widely used in medieval times, rooted in Christian allegory with vines representing the blood of Christ. Centuries later, romanticism saw a renewed appreciation of nature’s beauty for its own sake, not just for its symbolism. The Edwardian and Art Nouveau eras put nature to the fore – until the post WW1 Art Deco era and its emphasis on geometric shapes.
Memento Mori ring, circa 1750, with a skull, rose and pumpkin head.
Death was all around in medieval times. Symbols like skulls, hourglasses, skeletons, and coffins reminded the wearer of mortality and encouraged piety. Georgian mourning jewellery also featured hairwork or miniature mourning scenes in enamel – but it was deeply personal with hair of a deceased loved one replacing bones of saints. The Edwardians were also more sentimental, although the death of Prince Albert saw a return to more obvious mourning in Victorian times.
The middle ages were a superstitious time, with jewels thought to have powers (perhaps one reason the rich were so keen to keep them for themselves). The Georgians lent on this tradition and further developed the idea of birthstones, helping shift jewellery from a religious function to personal and emotional meaning. Ultimately science won out – but the traditional meanings remained for many gems.
Later eras also developed acrostic jewellery: rings and bracelets spelling out words like “DEAREST” or “REGARD” using the initials of gemstones (diamond, emerald, amethyst, etc.). Even this was a continuation from the late Middle Ages, where rings exchanged between lovers often bore short inscriptions (called posies) engraved on the inside.
The democratisation of jewellery: social and legal changes
Nothing sums up the changes in society better than amethyst – a rich, purple gem. Sumptuary laws had meant purple was not just a colour, it was a status symbol backed by law. Amethyst was therefore seen as a noble and religious gemstone, historically valued on a par with emeralds and rubies. Before the 18th century, amethyst deposits were found only in places like Russia and Sri Lanka, making it relatively rare.
Sumptuary laws fell out of favour in the 1600s and 1700s due to the rise of capitalism and mercantile wealth. There was a growing middle class who could afford luxury goods, so the rules were hard to enforce. What’s more, the 18th century saw the discovery of Brazilian amethysts in Minas Gerais, making amethyst and other gems far more accessible and affordable.
Victorian amethyst ring
Alongside this, the church had had its grip loosened – the Reformation, the Renaissance, and growing secularism meant people no longer needed jewellery to prove their piety. Instead, they used it to show love, status and individuality.
This combination of greater accessibility and more freedom (at least for some) meant amethyst became more popular in the 1800s as a choice for jewellery, especially in sentimental and mourning jewellery. Purple was now a colour that anyone could wear. Jewellery was much more widespread. There were fewer legal restrictions.
It’s the layers of of history that enrich antique jewellery
It’s tempting to think of the last 1,000 years as a series of great ruptures – the shift from medieval to modern times, the decline of religious power. The way we think of history reinforces this – teaching important events like the Black Death or the shift from Tudors to Stuarts makes it seem like there were a series of fundamental, overnight changes.
Yet people remained the same – there were just many more of them, and different classes evolved. And most of the themes and techniques that were used in the 1800s and 1900s evolved from, and were first popularised, some 400 or 500 years earlier, often coming back into fashion despite more modern alternatives.
So when you look at an antique ring, even one that’s, say, 200 years old, you’re really looking at something older – something that’s only possible because of a technique a devout artisan helped develop some 500 years before that.
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Samuel Mee is the founder of The Antique Ring Boutique (https://www.antiqueringboutique.com/) and has a number of guides on his website to buying rings from different historical periods. Unless otherwise noted, photos are courtesy of Antique Ring Boutique
Myself, I’d never heard of the Lollards until I studied the Tudors at university. The Reformation in pop culture is remembered in binary terms: Team Catholic and Team Protestant.
Historians debate the importance of the Lollards in the grand scheme of English church history. After all, in 1517 they weren’t about to take over the country. There was no Lollard gunpowder plot when Henry VIII came to the throne. While Lollard communities were tightly knit, they weren’t a unified force. Without the Reformation, Lollardy probably would have stayed underground forever. Still, it blew my mind that these radical Protestant-y ideas were running around in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries- centuries I thought of as Catholic England.
The Lollards honoured John Wycliffe as the father of their movement, but they didn’t keep strictly to his beliefs. Instead, they took his ideas in new directions. So Wycliffe is in the interesting position of being the father of Lollardy…. without being himself the first Lollard. Lollards eagerly devoured several different texts under the mistaken impression that Wycliffe wrote them.
John Wycliffe was a theologian at Oxford. He was kicked out of the university but had the patronage of John of Gaunt. Gaunt’s piety was conventional, but he found it politically useful to sponsor anti-clerical preaching. In his eyes, the clergy were a threat to magnates like himself. I can’t help but be reminded of Gaunt’s great-great-great-grandson Henry VIII, though Gaunt’s admirers probably don’t love the comparison.
Matters came to a head in February 1377, when Wycliffe was tried for heresy. The trial was held at St Paul’s Cathedral and a huge crowd gathered outside. Gaunt had summoned four Doctors of Divinity to serve as Wycliffe’s defence counsel. Henry Percy, the Marshal of England, was there to oversee the trial. He had the unenviable task of organising crowd control. Percy told Wycliffe to sit down ‘because there were many questions to answer so he would need a soft seat’. At this point, Gaunt’s nemesis William Courteney, Bishop of London, told Wycliffe to stay standing. An argument broke out and escalated until John of Gaunt stormed into the Lady Chapel. Backed up by an armed following, he threatened to drag the bishop outside ‘by his hair’. Wycliffe escaped further questioning.
By 1382 John of Gaunt had fully rejected Wycliffe’s theology, but Wycliffe had enough luck to avoid execution. He suffered a horrible stroke in 1383, then another one in December 1384. A few days later, he died on New Year’s Eve.
Despite Wycliffe’s death -and a boring death, with none of the spectacle and shock of martyrdom- Lollardy became even more popular. John Purvey translated the Bible into English, and the late 1390s was the Lollard heyday. Like the Puritans and the suffragettes, they were named by their enemies. Lollard means ‘mumbler’. Lollards called themselves ‘privy’ or ‘known’ men/women, and ‘children of salvation’.
That Bible would have been handwritten: it was not until the 1520s that the Lollards had the technology and the resources to print their texts. Some Lollards owned Bibles that they could not read, knowing their co-religionists would read it aloud to them. If they didn’t have access to a copy, they memorised it. Two hundred complete Lollard Bibles have survived, while other copies have survived in chunks or sections. Then again, the Bible is such a huge collection of short texts that whole medieval Bibles are already rare: it made practical sense to print or copy one or several of its books. Individuals might not have owned a whole Bible, but a copy of the four gospels or a psalter. You can read the Lollard bible digitally on biblegateway.com.
In 1414, Sir John Oldcastle led a Lollard revolt. (If you’re a Shakespeare fan, his name might ring a bell – he was the inspiration for Falstaff.) The attempted rebellion was a disaster for the movement: not only did it fail spectacularly, but it also allowed the king to paint the Lollards as traitors, so sympathisers were tainted by association. Lollardy was driven out of the universities. Realising the hopelessness of their situation, most Lollards renounced their beliefs. Only a few were martyred. Henry V’s Parliament declared that Lollards wanted “to annul and subvert the Christian faith and the law of God, to destroy our sovereign lord the king himself.”
English Protestants claimed the Lollards as their intellectual and theological ancestors. They dubbed Wycliffe ‘the flower of Oxford’, ‘the morning star of the Reformation’. So it’s interesting that Protestant England revered Henry V as the ideal medieval king while hating Mary I, even though both monarchs used violence to enforce Catholicism and papal authority. Military victory works wonders on posthumous reputations.
Martyrdom of John Oldcastle – Wikipedia
Who were the Lollards? Where were they? We have the names of only a few hundred. They tended to be peasants and artisans, in cities like London, Bristol, Coventry, and Gloucester. But they could also be found in the countryside: in Essex, Kent, Oxfordshire, and Gloucestershire. Lollardy reached as far north as Ayrshire (southwest Scotland) but didn’t have much of a foothold in the north of England. When the European reformation arrived, it was received far more warmly in some regions than others. The places where the new ideas were popular map onto the areas where there was a Lollard presence: East Anglia, Bristol, Gloucester, the Thames Valley, the Chiltern hills (Buckinghamshire) and Kent. There is evidence from the 1520s of evangelicals networking with the Lollard underground.
Recent research has shown that some Lollards were slightly higher in status than we thought. In 1514 the Bishop of London’s summoner claimed that he knew of heretics who were each worth £1,000. John Foxe would later claim that Eleanor Duchess of Gloucester ‘had long been a follower of Wickliffe’ – this is unlikely to be true, and the crime she was accused of (probably falsely) was witchcraft, not Lollardy. Humphrey of Gloucester was also not a Lollard: he idolised his brother Henry V.
By 1500, the number of Lollards was stable: not withering away, but not booming. The last Lollard text had been written around 1440. This stagnation is understandable: they were now a tiny minority in little pockets throughout Britain (except for the Chiltern hills in Buckinghamshire). It’s quite impressive that the large Chiltern community managed to survive undetected. And they were communities: Lollards stuck together, marrying and employing fellow Lollards. Like later religious dissidents, they met in safe houses or in fields to talk theology and read aloud their books – not just the Lollard Bible but a cycle of sermons.
No matter how much they hated it, they had to conform to survive. They went to their parish churches, had their infants baptised there, had to swallow their antipathy to the religious artwork surrounding them.
But I think they would say, if we could talk to their ghosts, that it was worth it. Henry V was crushingly victorious over the French and the Lollards. But by 1600, I think we can say it was the Lollards and the French who had the last laugh.
Further reading:The Red Prince by Helen Carr New Worlds, Lost Worlds by Susan Brigden All Things Made New by Diarmaid MacCulloch The Later Reformation in England 1547-1603, also by MacCulloch The Age of Reformation by Alec Ryrie The Tudors by Richard Rex
Read CF Kirkham-Sandy’s NEW BOOK:
SHACKLED TO A GHOST At the turn of the sixteenth century, young law student Thomas More meets the scholar Erasmus of Rotterdam. Caustic and clever, Erasmus has a vision of what Christendom could be – and More shares his dream.
Without wealth, noble blood, or even physical strength, Erasmus’ only weapon is his mind. Despite the obstacles they face, More and Erasmus blossom together. But the Reformation is coming for them. They can’t stop it, but can they survive it? And can they trust the man the other has become? As the Reformation gathers pace, More’s daughter Meg yearns to make her mark. Can she succeed, or is she doomed to repeat her mother’s fate?
CF Kirkham-Sandy grew up in Devon and has a BA and an MA in History from the universities of York and Bristol. CF lives and works in Herefordshire, and moonlights as a history tutor for students of all ages. CF is currently writing another novel and can be found on Threads @kirkhamsandycf and Twitter @Catofthepigeons.
I think Henry V was one of the more inscrutable kings—not least because the great bard took him in hand. Shakespeare’s play has, of course, immortalized Henry, giving him a fabulous speech on St. Crispin’s Day that still sends chills down our spine. Well, you know what I mean. There is no doubt that Henry V elevated the Lancastrians from usurpers to heroes, which was very possibly the reason he launched his French invasion in the first place. God was on his side, and after Agincourt no one dared suggest he didn’t deserve to sit on the throne.
If you had a chance to read my previous novel, THE ACCURSED KING, you would have seen Henry in his formative years. He was not the favorite son; the one-year younger Thomas filled that slot. I suspect this was because Thomas was the only son to accompany Henry Bolingbroke when he was exiled by Richard II. Before that, their father was so busy gallivanting around Europe he had very little time to spend with his family. Young Henry’s mother died in childbirth when he was eight, and the children were farmed out to relatives. During his father’s exile, twelve year-old Henry served as hostage to the king, and he accompanied Richard II to Ireland. He was favoured by the childless king, and Richard knighted him on campaign. When the king was usurped, young Henry was appalled, and I’m sure the stress between him and his father was intense. As first-born, Henry was given the titles due to the heir of the throne, and he was pragmatic enough to accept what fate had handed down to him. But as soon as he was crowned, one of the first things he did was give Richard II a proper burial.
King Richard knights young Henry, Harley ms 1319 f005r Wikipedia
As Prince of Wales, Henry was given full responsibilities. He spent eight years subduing the rebellious Welsh, learning much about warfare in the process. In 1403, when he was seventeen, he engaged in the full-scale Battle of Shrewsbury against the Percies, where he received an arrow in the face that nearly killed him. In 1410 he actually took control of his father’s council, since Henry IV’s illness had nearly incapacitated him, though a year later he was summarily dismissed when he and his uncle Bishop Beaufort reportedly suggested Henry IV retire. Then he spent a couple of years in enforced inaction.
Shakespeare gives us a lively tale of young Hal traipsing around town, drinking, causing trouble, and hanging about with disreputable characters (sorry, Falstaff was a made-up charlatan). As usual, this version of Hal went down in the history books as fact. But really, between fighting the Welsh and running the government, when could he have had the time? It’s possible that the two years he was in disgrace gave him the opportunity to proverbially let his hair down. This may have been the only time in his life he had a chance to enjoy himself. But by all accounts, he really did sober up the night his father died, and redefined himself as a serious, resolute leader ready to step into his father’s shoes. I just don’t believe his personality changed. He was ready for the task, and embraced it wholeheartedly.
It is said that Henry was well-loved by his companions and retainers. He was sincerely pious—to a fault, many historians state. He surrounded himself with bishops and clerics and took them on campaign, attended three masses in a row (I think every morning, but I’m not certain). Throughout his life, he didn’t waste time with flowery orations, and gave concise, common-sense responses like “No, that’s not acceptable” or “Yes, that’s possible”. In ordinary circumstances, he was very approachable and even sociable, as records of his losses at cards attest. He loved music, played the harp, and kept a large group of minstrels at his side, even on campaign. However, when the situation called for it—like a surrender after sieges—he exhibited an arrogance that intimidated his enemies.
As a commander, he demanded absolute obedience. His army was reportedly even better behaved in France than the French soldiers; there was no random violence against peasants, women and clergy for the most part. It was his intent that the French should come to see him as a better leader than their own incompetent king. As we know from the famous incident before Agincourt, he didn’t hesitate to hang a soldier who stole a pyx from a local church. At the same time, he did his best to take care of his troops. When he lay siege in the winter, he made sure to build little wooden houses for his own soldiers to shelter in. For the most part, food and supplies were shipped over from England rather than live off the land. Rarely did his besieging army suffer the pangs of hunger.
Nonetheless, a closer look at Henry’s deeds and behavior—especially during his Norman invasion after 1417—gives us some cringe-worthy moments. It can be terribly difficult not to judge Henry from our modern point of view. He was a product of a violent society, where human lives had little value unless you were of the upper classes. Might made right, and chivalric ideals didn’t necessarily include sympathy for the downtrodden. No one gave any thought to poor farmers whose crops were devastated and homes burned to the ground. It was commonly stated that the French occupying forces actually did considerably more damage than the English (France was in the middle of a civil war when Henry invaded).
Battle of Agincourt from ‘St Albans Chronicle’ – Wikipedia
One of the more damning stains on Henry’s reputation was during the battle of Agincourt. He ordered the prisoners to be killed when he was convinced that the enemy were gathering to attack again. Many modern historians are appalled at the order, which seems ruthless in the extreme. However, this wasn’t the first time prisoners were killed on the field of battle. It happened at Aljubarrota in 1385 when John of Portugal ordered prisoners killed so they could fight the Castilians. In an even more cold-blooded example, on the morning after the battle of Halidon Hill in 1333, Edward III ordered the beheading of over 100 Scottish prisoners. There are other examples, too much to describe here. It is significant that no one can find contemporary denunciations of Henry V’s decision at Agincourt. What he did was apparently within the acceptable code of war at the time. He may have regretted the killing, but he thought it was necessary.
Later on, during his second invasion of France after 1417, Henry’s attitude became more unforgiving. After one siege, he insisted on hanging a trumpeter that repeatedly annoyed the English with his derisive blasts from the battlements. He hung Scottish prisoners after the siege at Melun because they dared fight against him. Most of these petty retributions occurred after sieges, when he was angry at the resistance that caused the deaths of many Englishmen.
I think modern historians are harder on Henry V then contemporaries. But I’ll leave you with this quote from the great K.B. McFarlane, mid-century Oxford historian whose research was unparalleled: “It pleases lesser mortals to detect the Achilles’ heel of the great ones that live in the world’s eye; but by whatever standards he is judged, Henry was superlatively gifted: his only weakness was the physical one from which he died. He was born to rule and to conquer… Take him all round and he was, I think, the greatest man that ever ruled England.” (Lancastrian Kings and Lollard Knights) That’s informed judgment I would find it hard to argue with!
Siege with Cannons from Vigiles de Charles VII Wikipedia
Shakespeare touches on Harfleur in his famous play about Henry V, and I had always wondered what the significance of this siege was. Was it just a stepping-stone to Agincourt? Well, I discovered that the short answer is no. Agincourt was the unexpected battle; Harfleur was definitely on the agenda. When Henry launched his campaign in late summer of 1415, his destination was a well-kept secret. The French were so busy fighting their own civil war, he suspected they didn’t have the resources—or the incentive—to guard their coast against invasion. But of course, Henry couldn’t be sure. Only his pilots knew for certain where he was headed, but Harfleur was a good choice. Located at the mouth of the Seine, it had a strong walled port and was frequently used as a starting point for pirate raids and French attacks on England. Even better, the Seine led to Rouen and ultimately, Paris. Control of the Seine opened the way for many possibilities.
Henry V, from Nat’l Portrait Gallery, London (Wikipedia)
Initially, Henry V’s intention was to reclaim his patrimony in Normandy; many historians call it the Norman invasion in reverse. I don’t think he really took the concept of gaining the French crown seriously; it may have been in the back of his mind, but the actuality didn’t take place until many years later (I’ll cover that in my next book!). If you look at a map, you’ll see that the Seine pretty much cuts Normandy in half; this puts Harfleur as a port right in the middle of the dukedom. Henry envisioned it as a second Calais—which sits about 165 miles northeast. Since Harfleur is located on the north bank of the very wide Seine estuary, it was a logical jumping-off point for his invasion of Upper Normandy.
As usual, the invasion force got a late start, and they didn’t arrive in France until August 14. Henry chose to disembark at Chef-en-Caux (near modern Sainte-Adresse). It was a long beach before a tall chalk cliff, about three miles from Harfleur. Remnants of some defensive trenching had been long since abandoned, and no one was on hand to resist the English. It was certainly not conducive to unloading, and all the equipment (and horses) had to be offloaded to smaller vessels. It took three days to transfer the army and its supplies to land before they started their journey to Harfleur.
King Henry expected a siege and brought cannons and trebuchets, etc.to expedite the operation. He expected it to last only a couple of weeks, but the residents put up a stout defence and the English were tied down for six weeks, which brought them into late September. Worse than that, the army was stricken with dysentery, which put thousands of men out of action. By the end, between the twelve hundred soldiers left to garrison Harfleur, nearly two thousand invalided home, desertions, and untold deaths, the army was reduced by a third. He had somewhere between six and nine thousand men left (depending on the source) with which to continue, and winter was around the corner.
Siege of Harfleur, 1415 by Thomas Grieve – source: Wikipedia
The king’s ambitious plan to continue his invasion had gone up in smoke, and even Henry’s declaration that he would travel overland to Calais before going home met with resistance. But to Henry, the capture of one little port town was not worth all the money and blood spent—all the grandiose promises and towering ambitions. No, he couldn’t go home now with his tail between his legs. It would seem like cowardice. At the very least, he wanted to see the land that he had decided to conquer. And so, overriding advice from more prudent men than himself, Henry took his undersized army along the coast to Calais, determined to follow the route of his great-grandfather Edward III.
Was he looking for a fight? Some would say that’s exactly what he hoped for.
But who would have predicted that the French would finally summon enough gumption to block his way at the famous ford at Blanche-Tacque? He was forced to march upstream several days along the Somme before finding a crossing, giving the enemy time to gather a huge army and confront him at Agincourt. His men had run out of food many days before, and they were exhausted, starving, and bedraggled. Most called his decision to march to Calais sheer folly, but the end result couldn’t have been more satisfying. Henry had his victory, and he proved that God was on his side.
John the Fearless, Duke of Burgundy, Portrait after Rogier van der Weyden – Wikipedia
Much of the distress surrounding the French court in the early 15th century can be laid directly at the door of John the Fearless. What a slippery character! He was uncle of the schizophrenic King Charles VI and sought to control the ailing king but was frustrated by Louis Duke of Orléans, the king’s brother. However, Louis was not popular among the Parisians because of the taxes he raised (and was accused of squandering). So John made it his business to woo the people with promises: he would reform the administration and lower taxes. It worked. On the night of 23 November, 1407, Louis was murdered in cold blood in the streets of Paris. In a rare moment of weakness, John admitted his guilt then fled the city. But not for long; he figured out a way to clear his name. Labelling the murder as tyrannicide, John staged an elaborate apologia that persuaded the befuddled king to absolve him—though he never entirely escaped condemnation from his peers.
Needless to say, Louis’ son, the fourteen year-old Charles (and his mother) denounced the murderer, though ultimately they just didn’t have enough support for their cause and were forced to go home in humiliation. However, there were plenty of men who formed a faction around him—mostly southerners, like himself. They came to be known as the Armagnacs, named after Charles’s father in-law. The Count of Armagnac was a force of nature—brutal, efficient, and bull-headed. He was one of the few men who could stand up to Duke John.
Murder of the Duke of Orléans, BNF – Wikipedia
The two factions clashed continually; both parties wanted possession of Paris and, of course, the king, who blithely went along with whoever got a hold of him. Paris was simmering with discontent, and in January of 1413 grievances broke into rioting, directed by agents of Burgundy but led by the powerful butcher’s guild. Under their ringleader, Simon Caboche, the Cabochiens sported white hoods, laid siege to the Bastille—sound familiar?—then turned their attentions to the Hôtel Saint-Pol where the Louis the Dauphin was staying. John turned up to save the day, so to speak, and shrugged when the teenaged Dauphin bitterly blamed him for the uproar while his supporters were seized and dragged away. The Dauphin himself was detained and confined to the palace with his incapacitated father and helpless mother. It only took a day or so before Burgundy lost control of the mob, and he watched helplessly while Caboche produced a list of victims to be hauled to prison. Personal vendettas were carried out, and a reign of terror gripped Paris while suspected Armagnacs were arrested, impris- oned, and murdered. This went on for four months.
But insurrections are bad for business, and eventually the Parisians had had enough. When the time was ripe, the Armagnacs gathered their forces and converged on the city, inspiring the anti-Cabochiens to rise up against their oppressors. It all happened very quickly. Caboche and hundreds of his followers slipped out of Paris, taking refuge with the Duke of Burgundy who was one of the first to leave. The Armagnacs moved in, arrested anyone suspected of misconduct, and launched their own reign of terror. They kept a strangle-hold on Paris for the next five years, though Burgundy periodically laid siege to neighboring towns and the city itself in an attempt to push them out.
The Cabochien revolt, from Les Vigiles de Charles VII,BnF, Manuscrit Français 5054 – Wikipedia
Since the King of France was off limits, John turned his attention to the King of England. Although Henry V put on a good front and pretended to negotiate with Charles VI, he was undoubtedly planning an invasion, and John hoped to benefit. He could jointly invade any of the Armagnac’s territories, offer troops to supplement the English army as long as Henry offered troops to him when he needed them. As long as he wasn’t obliged to attack his own king directly, he was ready and willing to partner with England. By the time Henry launched his first invasion, Burgundy may have signed something resembling a non-interference agreement, though no one knew for sure.
The Armagnacs maintained their uneasy grip on Paris, and Burgundy’s threat was immediate enough that they dared not spare troops to confront the English. Once Henry landed at Harfleur, the king and Dauphin sent out orders commanding his nobles to assemble at Rouen, which was about fifty miles up the Seine. It was already too late! The Duke of Burgundy was requested to send five hundred men but not to come himself; the same request was made to Orléans. Both dukes were insulted, but John took the matter to its extreme and ordered that his lords in Picardy do nothing without his direct orders. No one dared disobey, and they all stayed home. On the day Harfleur surrendered, Burgundy was hunting in the forests of the Côte d’Or and making plans to travel to Dijon, where he would attend the christening of his nephew.
As we know, a huge army gathered to crush the English, after Harfleur shamefully capitulated following a six-week siege. The bulk of the French combatants were Armagnacs, since John’s restrictions were honoured by most of his captains. Even John’s nineteen-year-old son Philip, Count of Charolais, was removed to the castle of Aire, where his guardians— under pain of death—locked him in his room. Two of John’s brothers ignored his wishes and both were killed at Agincourt. One of them was Count of Nevers; it was his son who was christened that very day.
At least the Duke of Burgundy could console himself that Agincourt was an Armagnac defeat, for almost all the leading nobles killed and imprisoned were his enemies.
Did the French come to their senses after Agincourt? The short answer is no. The civil war was too ingrained for either side to budge. So while Henry V reinvaded in 1417 and took town after town throughout Normandy, the Armagnacs and Burgundians continued to fight over Paris. In 1418, an even greater, more vicious insurrection took place, this time against the Armagnacs. The Count himself was one of the victims, and his government was totally wiped out, along with leading citizens, merchants, and anyone who was suspected to be an ally. But the next Dauphin was whisked away to safety (Charles, this time. Louis died in 1415.), and all the Armagnacs gathered around him. Same faction, but they were now called Dauphinists. And once again, both Burgundy and the Dauphin negotiated with Henry V.
At the same time Paris was in crisis, King Henry was busy laying siege to Rouen, the capital of Normandy. This put John the Fearless in a predicament. Up until this point, his non-interference conduct played to his advantage. But now, he was the champion of France, and the king. He could no longer ally with Henry; their “understanding” was over.
Assassination of John the Fearless from Chronicle of Monstrelet – Wikipedia
Ultimately, he and the Dauphin decided to join forces, and after much negotiating they agreed to meet on a bridge at Montereau. A wooden enclosure was built around their meeting, but it didn’t help John! As soon as he knelt before the Dauphin, one of the participants stepped forward and drove an axe into his skull!
I can’t think of a worse idea. John’s son Philip (later Philip the Good) immediately went over to the English and swore to avenge his father’s death. He was almost single-handedly responsible for the English’s successful occupation of Normandy from then on. As a monk would later say when showing John’s skull to King Francis I: “Sire, this is the hole through which the English entered France.”
Charles VI, miniature from des Dialogues de Pierre Salmon – Wikipedia
When Henry V landed on the shore of Normandy in 1415, he was relatively sure the French were in no position to offer him much resistance. Already in his father’s reign, both factions of a budding civil war had already approached the English for assistance against the other. Henry IV had responded with an invasion force in support of the Armagnacs against the Burgundians. The Armagnacs—the party of Charles, Duke of Orléans—had made a better offer. However, Prince Henry was in favour of John the Fearless, Duke of Burgundy, and this antagonism against his father’s policy placed him on the wrong side of the political fence. Henry IV’s death a year later put an end to that!
So what was this all about? Since 1392, poor France was afflicted by a schizophrenic king, Charles VI, who slipped in and out of madness with unpredictable frequency. He was sane often enough to negate removing him from the throne permanently, though the older he got, the less he was able to rule rationally even when cognizant. His illness created a political firestorm, as his nobles fought to control his presence; whoever possessed the king ran the country. In the early years of the king’s “absences” (as his schizophrenic episodes were called), the government was ruled by his brother, Louis, Duke of Orléans along with the queen. Orléans was bitterly opposed by John the Fearless, the king’s cousin, who was the popular favorite. In 1407, John had Louis murdered one night in the streets of Paris, but he was such a manipulator that he got away with it. Of course, Louis’s son Charles did all he could to condemn the Duke of Burgundy, but he was too young and inexperienced to pull it off. He eventually formed an opposing faction led by his father in-law, the brutal and effective Count of Armagnac, who carried on after Charles was captured at the Battle of Agincourt.
In 1412, when Henry IV sent an invasion force to France under his second son the Duke of Clarence, King Charles managed to patch up a peace between his warring factions. Clarence was bought off and returned home, but the temporary truce soon failed and matters came to a head just after Henry IV died. Paris had become a proverbial powder keg, and simmering grievances broke into rioting, directed by agents of Burgundy but led by the powerful butcher’s guild. Under their ringleader, Simon Caboche, the Cabochiens sported white hoods, laid siege to the Bastille—sound familiar?—then turned their attentions to the Hôtel Saint-Pol where the Dauphin was staying. The insurgents seized and imprisoned many of the Dauphin’s supporters and detained the teenaged heir, confining him in the palace with his incapacitated father and helpless mother. Thus began a reign of terror where any suspected Armagnacs were arrested, imprisoned, and murdered. This went on for four months.
The Cabochien revolt, from Les Vigiles de Charles VII,BnF, Manuscrit Français 5054 – Wikipedia
But insurrections are bad for business, and eventually the Parisians had had enough. When the time was ripe, the Armagnacs gathered their forces and converged on the city, inspiring the anti-Cabochiens to rise up against their oppressors. It all happened very quickly. Caboche and hundreds of his followers slipped out of Paris, taking refuge with the Duke of Burgundy who was one of the first to leave. The Armagnacs moved in, arrested anyone suspected of misconduct, and launched their own reign of terror. They kept a strangle-hold on Paris for the next five years, though Burgundy periodically laid siege to neighboring towns and the city itself in an attempt to push them out.
John the Fearless, Duke of Burgundy, Portrait after Rogier van der Weyden – Wikipedia
Duke John was not one to take matters sitting down, so to speak. There was always King Henry of England, ready to discuss terms. Just like his father back in 1412, Henry negotiated with both sides while he prepared to invade. He hoped that John would offer to swear fealty to him, but Burgundy was not willing to go against his own king. So the best Henry could manage was something resembling a non-interference agreement; no one knew for sure what they came up with. But by all indications, Burgundy cooperated. He concentrated his efforts against the Armagnacs, throwing the government into such a panic that they dared not commit troops to the English invasion while Paris was threatened.
Harfleur was the first to experience the might of the English army. Henry laid siege to the city, blockading it both by land and sea. Repeated calls for help generated nothing but excuses: the king was working on it. They hadn’t gathered enough troops yet to confront the English. King Charles and the Dauphin both made their way toward Harfleur, but didn’t travel any further than Vernon, about eighty miles upriver, while the army slowly gathered at Rouen, thirty miles closer. Before he left Paris, the Dauphin sent messages in the king’s name to both the Duke of Burgundy and the Duke of Orléans, requesting them to send five hundred men each—but not to come themselves. This gave John the excuse he needed to pretend that he had been insulted, and he ordered all his lords in Picardy to stay put until he ordered otherwise. Neither he nor his men—with few exceptions—showed up at Agincourt. Too bad for the French; Burgundy’s leadership skills were sorely needed. Orléans belatedly decided to go. But he was an inexperienced twenty-one year old, and when he took command of the army—as was his right—he fatally ignored the advice of both the Constable and Marshal of France. He survived the battle, only to spend the next twenty-five years an English prisoner.
Because Burgundy stayed away, a disproportionate number of Armagnacs met their deaths on the battlefield of Agincourt. Once again, John the Fearless attempted to take advantage of the situation by laying siege to Paris. But once again, he was foiled. His day would come, but not for another three years, and when a new insurrection broke out in 1418, it made the Cabochien revolt look like a dress rehearsal. I’ll explore the Paris massacres in my next book, HENRY, SCOURGE OF NORMANDY.
It seems that every era in the middle ages has its historian whose exhaustive study puts it in the first rank. We had Edward A. Freeman with the Norman Conquest and James Hamilton Wylie with Henry IV and V. And now we have Jonathan Sumption covering the Hundred Years War in five volumes. I can’t believe I didn’t stumble across him until now! His scholarship is absolutely mind-boggling. He has covered events in such detail that much of the guesswork has been removed. This volume starts at the beginning of Henry IV’s reign and ends at Henry V’s death. We get a substantial look at what was going on in France, which had a huge impact on why and how the English were so successful in France. For instance, when describing the Dauphin Charles (in 1418):
Charles was earnest, intelligent and shrewd and would eventually become an astute judge of men. But he lacked self-confidence even as an adult. He was moody, changeable, and occasionally depressive, naturally risk-averse, withdrawn and taciturn in company, uncomfortable in the presence of strangers. Some of these qualities…made him temperamentally averse to war and uninterested in the chivalric values to which his father had been devoted in his brief prime. They also meant that he was easily led by intimates with stronger personalities than his own, a weakness which provoked persistent faction fighting among the men around him.
In my research, this book has absolutely taken first place. The author has filled in a lot of blanks glossed over in other history books, though in a few places I still need to go back to the older historians. I’d say that’s the nature of the beast in historical studies. You only have to look at the sixty-pages of notes and the forty-page bibliography to see how extensively researched this book is. And, I’m happy to say, I found it very readable—the most important part of all.
The Agincourt King (The Plantagenet Legacy Book 5) by Mercedes Rochelle is a lavish depiction of one of the most famous battles in English history, which was won by one of England’s most beloved kings.
Immortalised by Shakespeare, and to some extent, Kenneth Branagh, Henry V is probably one of the more recognised kings of this era. Shakespeare is a hard act to follow, but I was really looking forward to seeing Rochelle’s take on the man famed for his St Crispin’s Day Speech. Rochelle has breathed new life into Henry. He is a capable and somewhat caring king, devoted to the well-being of his people, yet driven by ambition to achieve the same greatness as his great grandfather, Edward III. Edward triumphed in the French battle at Crecy, and Henry was determined to achieve a similar feat, ultimately surpassing Edward’s victory at The Battle of Agincourt.
The level of historical detail in this story is astonishing. Rochelle’s dedication to research is reflected in her authoritative penmanship. The historical background of this story is so impressive, that it practically screams authenticity. There was no question about the time period I was in while reading this book. Rochelle’s skilful writing revives this era in all its agony and splendour.
Beyond being a narrative of conflict, this story explores the complexities of family, emphasizing the bond between brothers. Humphrey, Henry’s youngest brother, admires the king with fierce pride. Humphrey adores his brother but this devotion does not blind Humphrey to Henry’s faults. At times, he finds Henry rather confusing. Although cold-blooded murder bothers Henry, he doesn’t have the same moral dilemma about causing the death of thousands in battle. Witnessing the death of his closest friends and comrades from the bloody flux during the Siege of Harfleur was not a cause for retreat. Humphrey sees that Henry values honour above all else, especially when it comes to defeating the French.
Henry is portrayed as an extraordinarily astute leader, effortlessly navigating the realm of power and politics, and orchestrating the French like a masterful musician. He whistled the melody and the song unfolded just as he desired. He wants to be perceived as a compassionate leader, refraining from aggressive actions against the innocent. However, he has no qualms about causing mass starvation and murdering prisoners of war to achieve his goals. By observing his actions and inactions, the reader, and indeed Humphrey, gain insight into Henry’s true character. He is a driven individual who is hungry for success and recognition. The Battle of Agincourt served as the platform for him to showcase that God was on his side. Once he had done that, he went home. At least for a while.
The way the book explored the relationships between the brothers, particularly Henry and Thomas, was expertly executed. From Humphrey’s musing, he sees greatness in both his elder brothers and comes to the conclusion that both men have the makings for a great king, it is just that fate made Henry the eldest. The portrayal of the brother’s relationships was skilfully done, allowing the reader to truly grasp the dynamics of this family. Henry’s relationship with his brothers was unique compared to previous kings – he cared for them and valued their thoughts, although he had the ultimate authority as king. And as Humphrey notices, although Thomas is the heir to the throne, and looks the part, Henry is the better man for the job. I really enjoyed as a reader getting to know the brothers and the different strengths they had. The way Humphrey told his story from his perspective added a personal touch that I found particularly enjoyable while reading. Humphrey was the ideal narrator for Henry’s story and I really liked him as a character. I thought he was wonderfully depicted.
Rochelle does give the reader both the English and French perspectives in this novel. With Charles VI’s unpredictable illness, there is a lack of strong leadership. The depiction of the Dauphin, Louis, Duke of Guienne, was masterfully rendered. In contrast to Henry, he fails to command the loyalty of his nobles, is burdened with rival noble Houses, lacks combat experience, and is surrounded by men he doesn’t trust. Henry cleverly outwits and outmanoeuvres him every time. Nevertheless, the Dauphin was a captivating character to read about and I thoroughly enjoyed witnessing the complete chaos that enveloped him and the French throne.
Rochelle subtly indicated the future by mentioning Henry VI’s disputed lineage – after all, he was an usurper which would have made Henry V the son of an usurper. Henry needed this decisive battle that would validate the Lancastrians’ claim of divine backing. Rochelle illustrates how crucial this war was for Henry’s reign. He needed that success. What happened after in the future generations is, as they say, another story!
I anticipated greatness from this novel because Rochelle can create authentic battle scenes and, at the same time, grasp the complexities of human emotions, and as I anticipated this book is great. It is an utterly brilliant book from start to finish and one I highly recommend.
