The Battle of Agincourt: Netflix’s The King and Shakespeare’s Henry V — History, Propaganda, or Art?

Introduction

The Battle of Agincourt was fought between Henry V's British, and Charles VI's French on October 25th, 1415. But it has been revisited again and again–not on those muddy fields in France, but on paper, on screen, and in the collective imagination of millions over the ages. There are three chief reimaginations of the event, those being (in chronological order) the chronicles of Holinshed and Monstrelet, Shakespeare's Henry V, and Netflix's The King. In these portrayals, we encounter three radically different battles, demonstrating how history is perhaps not so rigid, but shaped by the priorities and values of those who recount it. By analysing them, we can see how each creator's vision reflects the culture of their time. This essay will strive to do this by exploring the differences between portrayals (focusing on The King, and Shakespeare’s Henry V), reasons for these differences, and what is revealed about the social, political, and cultural contexts in which they were made.

The King

Starting with–in the eyes of historical accuracy– the most controversial interpretation. The King (2019) is an impressive showcase of filmmaking, from direction and acting to world-building and choreography. Most striking to me is it's portrayal of medieval combat, seen predominately in Henry's 1-on-1 duel with Henry 'Hotspur' Percy, and the climax of the film, the Battle of Agincourt itself. It differs from other cinematic medieval-style battles, seen in pieces such as Game of Thrones or The Lord of the Rings. The fighting is not filmed to look 'cool'. No wide, swinging strokes of longswords, or effortless galloping of cavalry through armies, but brutally realistic fights in which swords are dropped, soldiers trip and exhaustion is visible; if a character ends up in a position where they would realistically be killed, they are. This realistic nature of the micro events is what makes the macro deviations from historical accuracy so fascinating.

The film’s most glaring historical fabrication is the Dauphin’s presence at Agincourt. He wasn’t there. Yet this deliberate anachronism serves crucial purpose that reveals contemporary anxieties about leadership and conflict. The Dauphin is killed at Agincourt, but there are two moving parts to this. Firstly, his death is used to create a satisfying narrative conclusion; the French leader has been killed, therefore the English win. Secondly, however, is the way in which he is killed. The Dauphin is violently stabbed to death by a number of Henry’s men. This occurs after the Dauphin rides into battle—once it is clear that the tide has turned and the English are winning—to find Henry and fight him in their armies stead. However, the Dauphins shiny, slick, armour cause him to repeatedly slip and fall in the muddy field. When it becomes clear he is unable to fight, Henry gives his men the order. This anti-climactic and rather pitiful end to the main antagonist does a great job of exposing the gap between glorified mythology and brutal reality. We were expecting an epic duel to determine the fate of thousands and millions, but no. It undercuts the idea of noble warfare and leaves us with a sense that in a battle so bloody, victory is hollow.

This conclusion to the battle reflects modern scepticism toward military heroism, in stark contrast to the values of the medieval public. Where historical sources celebrate the capture of French nobles and the economic benefits of ransom, The King focuses on human cost. The tone of the aftermath of Agincourt dwells on the futility of violence rather than a celebration of tactical brilliance or national pride. This speaks directly to audiences who've witnessed decades of military interventions claimed to serve ideals, yet ultimately favouring the interests of the elite. 

What makes this ending particularly powerful is how it is a complete U-turn from the rest of the film. All events leading up to the battle are largely framed through the lens of political and economic motivation: Henry is manipulated into war by his advisers, rather than being driver by dynastic legitimacy or divine instruction. The ending emphasises the detrimental effects of this very manipulation. Director David Michǒd seems to be shining a light on the dangers and evils that emerge in those with large scale economic and political influence.

Henry V

Shakespeare used The Battle of Agincourt to amplify unity between government and the public. Written in 1599, near the end of Elizabeth I’s reign, England faced constant threats of Spanish invasion, religious division between Catholics and Protestants, and debilitating financial strain from continuous war. Shakespeare offered a vision of English triumph, rooted in history but created to inspire confidence and patriotism, reassuring audiences that England remained strong, noble, and able to endure.

The defining scene of the play is the St. Crispin’s Day speech, and it showcases Shakespeare’s aim to unite rather than divide. “We few, we happy few, we band of brothers; For he today that sheds his blood with me shall be my brother.” Henry’s words create a sense of equality and inclusion for all who fight, not just the knights and nobles. This would have resonated strongly with an Elizabethan audience who lived in a society very rigid in hierarchy. Shakespeare’s words spoken through King Henry present military service as a route to social distinction and honour, framing military servicemen in higher regard to the public, once again raising confidence and pride. This can be assumed as history records no speech of any kind from King Henry, therefore the St. Crispin’s Day speech was entirely crafted by Shakespeare, further suggesting deliberation and calculation behind the words.

Shakespeare relied heavily on Holinshed’s Chronicles, however, he used a selective methodology, prioritising emotional truth over fact—carrying forward certain details for dramatic purposes. For example, Holinshed suggests the French had around 150,000 troops, whereas modern estimates are closer to 15,000. Shakespeare, of course, was not aware of the modern estimate, yet it is still notable that he retained the larger figure. This deliberate choice makes Henry’s victory that much more miraculous and heroic, even if an army of 150,000 would have seemed inconceivable in the early 15th century.

Finally, perhaps most importantly, Shakespeare altered the motivation for the war. The play creates a tone of noble duty and English legitimacy—fighting this war was framed as righteous; an altruistic deed rather than greed-driven. This is exemplified in the “gift” of a ball from the Dauphin to Henry. In the play, the ball is received as an insult and thereby a threat, implying that the king is childish and unworthy.  Similarly to the St. Crispin’s Day speech, there is no historical record of this ball. It is yet another creation by Shakespeare to install morality and justification into the English cause, again framing the English crown as a symbol of power which will not kneel to threats, but is strong, righteous and capable of defending its people.

A Comparison 

When directly compared, The King and Henry V are completely different. This is illustrated in the differing representations of King Henry V. Although The King’s Henry does deliver a compelling pre-battle speech, he remains isolated and burdened throughout the film, contrasting sharply with Shakespeare’s Henry who carries an aura of inclusivity and brotherhood. Comparing the two protagonists allows us to observe the two recreations’ depictions of leadership itself. Shakespeare presents Henry’s claim to France as legal and moral—even divinely endorsed. The King takes a political route: Henry is thrust into conflict by scheming advisers rather than moral duty or divine destiny. This inversion gives us a surprisingly profound picture of the political landscape of the two eras. In late 16th and early 17th century: Shakespeare’s England values solidarity, while Michôd’s audience is shown the extremely polarised and fatigued political state in which the modern West reflects. Said fatigue is encapsulated to a T by the concluding scenes of the film, after the battle is won—Henry realises he has been manipulated and has needlessly caused much death and suffering. There is no feast, no celebration, just the stark realisation of what has happened, reflected by Henry's sullen demeanour and dialogue.

Questioning Our Sources

However, in the case of all historical events—and indeed with Agincourt—we must question the sources which we assume provide the objective truth. Our understanding of the “real” Agincourt is built from a fairly scarce patchwork of evidence, some, as with all written sources, carrying potential bias. For example, the previously mentioned discrepancy of troop numbers reported in the Holinshed Chronicles. Likewise, administrative records such as Henry V’s payrolls and muster lists are incomplete or contradictory. Furthermore, even modern archeological surveys provide only fragmentary information about troop positions or casualty figures. All evidence is valuable but imperfect. This highlights, and can perhaps justify, the contradictions between recreations.

Conclusion

What emerges from this analysis is a fundamental insight into the nature of historical narrative itself: it is less about perfectly retelling the past, and more about constructing the present. Historical accuracy becomes secondary to contemporary relevance.

It has been said many times that these two portrayals reflect the large scale states of the societies of the time, yet we must also be cautious of reading too much into their significance. For example, Joel Edgerton played the character of Falstaff, but he also co-wrote the film with Michôd. This could be a simple explanation for Falstaff’s inflated role compared to actuality; a larger part in the film could have meant a larger paycheque, certainly more recognition and a general boost to Edgerton’s career. Therefore, other alterations made to the narrative could be simple personal preference of the writers rather than a deliberate commentary on the political landscape. This could also be argued as present in Henry V. The St Crispin's Day Speech may well have been a deliberate propaganda tool. Or perhaps it's purpose is much more surface-level. Nearing the climax, it is feasible that Shakespeare felt the play needed a defining, memorable moment, an opportunity to show-off his writing, and to give his actors some substance to work with to get the audience excited for the battle. Essentially to make the play more entertaining for the audience (and give others a reason to pay to watch it) rather than an ulterior motive.

This leads us to an interesting yet provocative conclusion: if historical evidence unavoidably reflects the state of the present in which they were written, we must fundamentally rethink how we approach any historical source. Each piece of history becomes not a window into the past, but a mirror reflecting its creator’s world.

These implications are profound. If history is always constructed to an extent, then understanding the past always requires an understanding of the motivations of those who recount it. Shakespeare’s heroic, noble Henry and The King’s manipulated, tortured king are equally “true” as Elizabethan propaganda and political critique. This realisation is somewhat liberating—we are less bound to the impossible pursuit of historical truth, and more able to focus on the choices, biased and priorities of those involved. We can study how humanity shapes history, rather than being shaped by it. 

References

Curry, A. (2005) Agincourt: A New History. Stroud: Tempus.

Holinshed, R. (1587) Chronicles of England, Scotland, and Ireland. London: Henry Denham.

Shakespeare, W. (1600) Henry V. London: Thomas Creede.