The Battle of Crecy, 1346. The Beginning of the End of the European Knight, Longbowmen Ascend.

The English victory at Crécy announced their rise as a formidable military power on the European stage, while signaling the beginning of the long, inevitable decline of heavy cavalry as the dominant force in warfare. This shift marked a new era, where disciplined infantry and devastating long-range weapons began to overshadow the once-mighty armored knights.

Crecy. August 26, 1346.
English Forces: ~ 11,000 Soldiers of which ~ 3,900 are Men-at-Arms.
French Forces: ~ 60,000 of which ~ 12,000 to 16,00 are Knights.

Additional Reading and Research:

• Fuller J.F.C. A Military History of the Western World.
• Sumption, John. The Hundred Years War: Trial by Battle.
• Wailly, Henry. Crecy, 1346: Anatomy of a Battle.
• Allmand, C.T. The Hundred Years War: England and France at War.

Some Historical Notes:

1. "Began the long decline of the cavalry as the dominant force in the military": It’s important to clarify that Crecy marked the beginning of the decline specifically for the heavy, feudal-style, cavalry dominated by mounted knights in full armor. Cavalry itself didn't disappear but was gradually transformed over time. The introduction of longbows, and later firearms, made heavily armored knights increasingly vulnerable, but cavalry would remain important in new forms -- such as light cavalry and dragoons -- well into the Napoleonic era and beyond. We see cavalry start to significantly wane during WWI.

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Transcript

Thanks for tuning in to today's episode of History's Greatest Battles. As always, if you're not yet, please subscribe, and share this episode with a friend.

Two episodes ago, episode 58 of season one, we spoke about a disparity in weapons technology — Spanish conquistadors with armor, horses, and gunpowder — against the Incan Natives… today’s battle also displays, not so much a disparity, but an innovation in weapons technology.

Crecy is known as one of the battles where a common man could take down a noble, a mounted knight. While the longbow men take the credit, what is often overlooked at the battle of Crecy was the tactical brilliance employed in the placement the troops, the chevauchee that took place prior — utter destruction and looting of the nobles lands and villages, that riled the French into hasty attacks with, not poor tactical preparation, but seemingly no tactical preparation — you know, like the guys today that walk into an MMA gym and say, “I see red when I fight,” then are swiftly submitted or KO’d by a trained, disciplined, and calm opponent. 

Similarly, Crecy was fought in such a manner. The French war machine outnumbered the English nearly six to one. Yet superior weapons innovations, and discipline led to the English victory. 

Let us now experience, the battle of Crecy.

Welcome to History's Greatest Battles, Season 01, Episode 60: The Battle of Crecy, the 26th of August, 1346.

English Forces: roughly 11,000 men, of which 3,900 were Men-at-Arms.

French Forces: roughly 60,000 men, of which 12,000 to 20,000 were knights.

The English victory at Crécy announced their rise as a formidable military power on the European stage, while signaling the beginning of the long, inevitable decline of heavy cavalry as the dominant force in warfare. This shift marked a new era, where disciplined infantry and devastating long-range weapons began to overshadow the once-mighty armored knights.

In 1327, with the death of King Charles IV, the mighty Capetian dynasty—centuries in the making—collapsed into dust. No son rose to claim the throne, and the bloodline that had held France for generations came to a sudden, ignoble halt. Despite his closer bloodline to the French crown, England’s King Edward III initially deferred his claim, allowing the French nobility’s favored choice, Philip of Valois, to ascend the throne. Edward acknowledged Philip as King Philip VI, but this was no submission—it was a transaction. In exchange, he secured English control over the vast and wealthy Duchy of Aquitaine, land wrested from France in the marriage of Eleanor to Henry II, long ago. Power is not always taken by the sword; sometimes it is preserved by the promise of future bloodshed.

Yet by 1340, Edward’s patience wore thin. What was once a calculated retreat turned into a hunger for conquest. He renounced his feigned allegiance to Philip and made clear his intention—he would take the throne of France by force. War had already erupted, and now the fires of conflict were stoked beyond control. What we now know as the Hundred Years' War—a grinding, relentless struggle from 1337 to 1453—was a clash of empires, each determined to impose its will, generation after generation. At the heart of this raging inferno lay old rivalries. The English wool trade, vital to their wealth, clashed with French interests in Flanders. Meanwhile, French kings, ever the schemers, fanned the flames of rebellion in Scotland, hoping to break England from within.

England’s first significant triumph came in 1340 at the Battle of Sluys, where Edward’s longbowmen, stationed on roughly 150 ships, decimated a French fleet of 190 vessels in a brutal display of power. The sea turned red, but victory remained incomplete. Though the battle provided little in the way of strategic gain, it demonstrated the lethal efficacy of the English longbow against armored forces—an advantage the French tragically failed to comprehend. As Edward deployed forces in France in the ensuing years, this oversight granted him a tactical superiority, one the French continued to underestimate.

Edward's England may have been poorer, but gold does not win wars—steel and skill do. His army, forged by discipline and hardened by constant battle, was far superior to the disorganized forces of France. In preceding centuries, feudal obligations required men to serve their local lords, and lords to their king, creating vast armies bound by duty but crippled by lack of training. The French knights, proud but reckless, embodied this ancient system—an army in name only. While the system could raise vast hordes, these men were scarcely trained, often unmotivated, and bound more by fear than by will to fight.

Edward, however, transformed this approach by introducing indenture, a system where nobles enlisted seasoned soldiers and paid them directly for their expertise. This shift professionalized the English army, with recruitment based on martial skill rather than indiscriminate levies from the general populace. In the brutal wars against Scotland, Edward’s men were tempered, honed into battle-hardened veterans. Every clash strengthened their resolve and sharpened their craft. By the time Edward’s forces crossed into France, they were composed of seasoned veterans, facing a disjointed French army of noble knights and hastily trained peasants.

In the spring of 1346, Edward’s forces stationed in Aquitaine braced against an advancing French army. The tension mounted, and the shadow of battle spread across the land. With his men besieged at Aiguillon, Edward gathered his army with iron resolve, marching northward into the heart of France, intending to strike terror and chaos in his wake. On July 13, 1346, Edward landed in Normandy with a force of 15,000 seasoned warriors, finding the region unprepared for war, and its riches ripe for plunder. Edward unleashed the chevauchée—a ruthless campaign of destruction, designed not merely to take but to obliterate. His mission was one of devastation. His men ravaged the land, seizing all that held value, while terror stalked the villages in their wake—violence, torture, and murder sown like seeds of dread in every corner of the countryside. The campaign’s success was monstrous. His soldiers feasted on the spoils of war, their greed and cruelty unrestrained, leaving a land gutted and a people broken.

Edward’s army tore a bloody path to the very gates of Paris, the heart of France, though the city itself was spared—for now. King Philip gathered his own forces on the outskirts of Paris, prompting Edward to withdraw northward, his retreat a swath of flames and ruin that blazed across the land. Philip’s army nearly trapped him near Abbeville, at the Somme’s swollen mouth. But fate favored the English—just as the tide surged, they found a hidden ford, crossing to safety while the French were left stranded, powerless to pursue.

Edward led his army to Crécy-en-Ponthieu, where they dug in and rested, still flushed with the exhilaration of their narrow escape from the jaws of the French host. Here, his men refueled—pillaging local homes and shops, gorging themselves on stolen bread and wine, the spoils of their relentless advance. Edward, ever the strategist, positioned his army with precision. The left flank secured by the Maie stream, and the right shielded by the vast, impenetrable Crécy Forest. His army, entrenched, awaited the storm. The battlefield itself became Edward’s weapon. The French would be forced to charge downhill, straight into the jaws of death—the killing field, perfectly exposed to the merciless rain of English arrows.

Edward now commanded just 11,000 men—2,000 hardened knights and men-at-arms, 500 swift cavalry, 7,000 deadly English and Welsh longbowmen, and 1,500 fierce skirmishers armed with cruel, gleaming blades. His forces were arranged with the precision of a master tactician. On the right, the young Black Prince, just sixteen, commanded 4,000 men. In the center, 800 men-at-arms, flanked by 2,000 archers, with the knife-wielding skirmishers lurking behind. To the left, 500 men-at-arms, supported by another 1,200 archers. Edward himself held the reserve—a powerful force of 700 men-at-arms and 2,000 archers, ready to strike like a clenched fist.

With his army set, Edward moved among his men, his words of iron will stirring them, igniting their spirits. Satisfied with their readiness, he allowed them to feast, drinking and eating their fill, while the scent of war hung heavy in the air. Edward took his place atop a mill that loomed over the battlefield like a watchful sentinel. By noon on that fateful Saturday, August 26, 1346, the signal came—the French were approaching. What advanced toward them was no disciplined army, but a chaotic swarm—a mass of bodies and banners, a horde driven more by pride and fury than any semblance of order. Philip, cautious but desperate, had dispatched knights ahead to scout the English lines. They returned with the grim report—the English were ready, entrenched, waiting for blood.

The knights, veterans of countless battles, urged Philip to halt the advance, form up his men, and wait until dawn to unleash the attack. Let the night pass before charging into the jaws of death. Philip, grasping the wisdom of their words, agreed. Yet the restless nobility, eager for glory and the spoils of war, defied him. As the French lords neared Crécy, their blood boiled for battle. They would not wait. Impatient, they pressed forward, determined to seize glory that very day. Their ambition was twofold: to bathe themselves in the honor of battle and to capture English nobles, whose ransom would make them rich beyond imagination. In these times, rank meant wealth, and taking a high-born prisoner was as valuable as gold itself—a brutal economy driven by blood and status. Moreover, these nobles viewed themselves as near-equals to the king, not his obedient servants. Orders were met with disdain, and each man sought his own victory.

The first to arrive was King John of Bohemia—nearly blind, yet still every inch a warrior. His lack of sight had not dulled the steel of his courage, nor his thirst for combat. At his side rode Charles, Comte de Alençon, brother to Philip and every bit as eager to crush the English. As the French banners spread out like a rising tide, the English camp burst into motion. Trumpets blared, summoning the men to their battle stations, ready to meet the enemy head-on. By 4 p.m., the French forces were assembling, a disorganized flood of men and horses. For two long hours, they poured onto the field, driven by pride and recklessness.

At the forefront marched 6,000 to 8,000 Genoese crossbowmen, mercenaries of some skill—the only professional soldiers in the French ranks. Behind them, French knights, encased in gleaming armor, jostled and shoved for position, each eager to be first to spill English blood. The French, in their impatience, refused to rest, to scout, or to strategize. Their hunger for battle overruled any caution, and so they rushed forward to fight that very day, oblivious to the danger that awaited them. As the clock struck 6 p.m., the heavens opened, unleashing a sudden, violent storm. Rain lashed the battlefield, soaking the ground, but as quickly as it came, it vanished, leaving the field slick and treacherous. In the storm’s wake, the sun broke through once more, but it now sank behind the English lines. Its blinding light poured directly into the eyes of the French soldiers, adding yet another cruel twist to their ill-fated advance.

The Genoese crossbowmen surged forward, unleashing a hail of bolts that whistled through the air. Yet they fired from too far—far beyond the reach of their crossbows. But they had stepped into the killing ground of the English longbowmen, who stood poised to deliver death. Without hesitation, the English archers unleashed their fury. A storm of arrows filled the sky, descending with deadly precision, ripping through the Genoese ranks. In an instant, bodies crumpled, and the once-formidable line was torn apart. The longbowmen, firing with machine-like speed—five arrows each minute—cut down their enemies in waves. The crossbowmen, fumbling to reload their cumbersome weapons, fell in droves under the relentless onslaught. In mere moments, the Genoese survivors, bloodied and shattered, turned and fled, abandoning the field in sheer terror.

The French knights sneered at the fleeing Genoese, scoffing at the weakness of commoners. Now, it was their turn—the nobles would claim the day and trample the English underfoot. In a thunderous charge, the French heavy cavalry surged forward, trampling the retreating Genoese beneath their hooves, as they charged headlong toward the English lines with deadly intent. But before the French knights could reach their foe, the sky darkened again with arrows. These English missiles punched through armor, slaying horse and rider alike, cutting down knights in their tracks, sending beasts and men crashing to the earth. Dozens of the mightiest warriors of France fell in the mud, their once-proud banners collapsing with them. The survivors reeled, pulling back, stunned by the ferocity of the longbow’s bite.

The English archers, expertly positioned, poured devastating crossfire into the chaotic mass of French cavalry. Meanwhile, Edward’s men-at-arms stood untouched, watching the carnage unfold before them. Yet the French nobles, undeterred by slaughter, regrouped and charged once more. Each time, they met the same fate—wave after wave, cut down and scattered by the deadly rain of arrows. The hours dragged on, the sun sinking lower, as the French launched charge after charge—twelve, perhaps fifteen, each more desperate than the last, and each broken upon the unyielding English defense.

A few knights, by sheer force of will and luck, broke through the storm of arrows and crashed into the English lines. In those moments, the fighting was brutal, a clash of steel and savagery, but always the French were beaten back. The English archers, protected behind a forest of sharpened stakes, remained untouchable. The French cavalry, frustrated and bloodied, could not reach them, no matter how hard they pressed. On the front lines, the dismounted English knights fought with grim determination, standing shoulder to shoulder with their common soldiers. Spear, sword, and ax in hand, they hacked down the French with deadly precision, suffering few casualties of their own.

On the right flank, the young Prince Edward, just sixteen, faced the most savage fighting of the day. He stood as unyielding as stone, leading his men through a crucible of blood and chaos. When word came that the prince needed reinforcements, the king’s reply was simple: “Let the boy win his spurs.” And win them he did, as he carved his name into the annals of war on that fateful day. As night descended, the battlefield grew still, and the fighting came to a close. Edward commanded his men to hold their positions, standing like shadows over the broken bodies of their enemies. Yet discipline faltered among the spearmen, as many broke ranks to loot the bodies of wounded French nobles, prying loose jewels and treasures from the dying. Edward and his nobles seethed in frustration. Each dead noble meant a lost fortune in ransom, squandered for mere trinkets.

At dawn, the remnants of the French army, straggling behind from the day before, reached the battlefield and threw themselves at the English lines in a final, desperate attempt. But like those who had come before them, they were swiftly repelled, their hopes dashed upon the shields of Edward’s veterans. As Philip’s forces scattered in defeat, Edward commanded his men to rise. They moved across the blood-soaked field, surveying the wreckage of the French host, the remnants of a once-proud army now reduced to corpses and shattered banners. The scale of the slaughter was staggering. Among the dead or captured lay 1,500 French knights, the noble elite of France. Another 10,000 common foot soldiers, now mere bodies strewn across the mud, paid the price for their king’s folly.

Astonishingly, English losses were fewer than 100 souls, and many of those were the undisciplined spearmen who had broken ranks too early, greed blinding them to the dangers of the battlefield. Though Crécy’s triumph seemed monumental, in the grand scope of the Hundred Years’ War, it barely shifted the balance. The conflict would rage on, seemingly without end. Yet, it was enough to grant Edward safe passage to Calais, where he set his sights on the city’s walls, preparing for yet another siege. His enemies scattered, unable to contest him. After a grueling year-long siege, Calais fell to Edward, and with it, he secured a foothold in France that would remain under English control for the next two hundred years—a testament to his unrelenting ambition.

Strategically, Crécy’s significance might seem fleeting in the broader tapestry of the Hundred Years' War, but its impact reverberated in two profound ways. First, it cemented the reputation of the English army as a force to be feared—no longer a ragtag band of mercenaries or levies, but a disciplined, deadly machine. Since the time of William the Conqueror and the Battle of Hastings, the French had stood at the pinnacle of European warfare, their armies bolstered by the sheer number of armored nobles on horseback—lords of the battlefield. Until now, the English had yet to face a truly formidable enemy. Victories over the Welsh and Scots were dismissed by continental powers as trifles, but those campaigns honed Edward’s men, forging them into the lethal force that triumphed at Crécy.

The system of indenture brought forth a new breed of soldier, one who trained relentlessly and fought not for duty, but for pay—and the promise of the spoils of war. English longbowmen, by law, practiced their deadly craft every weekend. This gave Edward a vast reservoir of skilled archers to draw upon—he could select the finest marksmen, while the French lords were left with whatever rabble they could muster. Recruiting locally bred a fierce sense of camaraderie within the ranks, and English nobles, who fought and bled beside their men, fostered a loyalty and morale that the fractured French nobility could never hope to achieve. After 1346, no one in Europe could afford to dismiss English arms. They had proven their mettle, and they would be reckoned with on the battlefield for years to come.

The second and perhaps more profound consequence of Crécy was that it marked the beginning of the end for the armored knight, whose days of battlefield supremacy were rapidly fading. The warhorses, bred and trained to bear a knight in full armor, were expensive luxuries—affordable only to the noble elite. In France, these mounted juggernauts had long dominated their lighter, less-equipped foes, crushing them with sheer brute force. For centuries, poorer armies stood no chance against such might. Unable to afford horses or armor, they were doomed to be trampled beneath the hooves of noble steeds. But the longbow changed everything. It could strike down an armored knight from over 200 yards away, transforming the once-invincible warrior into nothing more than a lumbering target.

The French would be slow to grasp this new reality, clinging to their chivalric traditions. Nearly seventy years later, at Agincourt in 1415, Henry V would repeat the same brutal lesson that Crécy had taught them. The English longbows would continue to scythe down the flower of French nobility, yet still, the French sent their knights into the fray—stubborn, defiant, and blind to the changing tides of war. Crécy signaled the fall of the armored knight, but it was at Agincourt that this once-mighty institution breathed its last, a final, desperate gasp before sinking into history.

The Hundred Years' War, which had raged on and off since 1337, saw its battles pause as Europe was ravaged by a far deadlier foe—the Black Death—a plague that stopped even war in its tracks. England’s efforts to dominate France had met with limited success, but Henry V was not a man to be easily deterred. He would lead one final, audacious attempt to claim France’s crown. Between 7,000 and 10,000 French nobles perished in these battles, sealing the fate of French chivalry. Never again would knights dominate Europe’s battlefields. Their time had passed, buried in the mud and blood of Crécy and Agincourt.

The common soldier, armed with a simple missile weapon, could now bring down the noblest of warriors. This shift in power was a harbinger of the end of feudalism itself. When gunpowder weapons emerged in the century to follow, the armored knight became a relic of a bygone age—too costly, too slow, and too vulnerable for the new world of war.