NORTHUMBERLAND Well lords, the Duke of Lancaster is dead.
ROSS And living too, for now his son is Duke.
WILLOUGHBY Barely in title, not in revenues.
NORTHUMBERLAND Richly in both if justice had her right.
ROSS My heart is great, but it must break with silence
Ere’t be disburdened with a liberal tongue.
NORTHUMBERLAND Nay, speak thy mind, and let him ne’er speak more
That speaks the words again to do thee harm.
WILLOUGHBY Tends that thou wouldst speak to the Duke of Hereford?
If it be so, out with it boldly, man—
Quick is mine ear to hear of good towards him.
ROSS No good at all that I can do for him
Unless you call it good to pity him,
Bereft and gelded of his patrimony. (2.1.224-237)
Oh, this is such smart dramaturgy. In a play, and a scene, so obsessed with names and titles, these three characters are anonymous (so one has to look past the speech prefixes). They will be recognisable as noble, and Northumberland addresses them as lords; he at least might bear an identifying badge. But they do not address each other by name: what matters is, in fact, their identity as nobles (which is what Northumberland is reminding them of). Where do their loyalties lie? To the King? Or to the codes of chivalry and honour, and above all to the ancient privileges and rights of the nobility of England? That question is about to become moot, but first we have the spectacle of three powerful men, circling around each other, like dogs sniffing, gradually opening up and establishing not only whether or not they share the same views, but whether they trust one another. What is ultimately at stake here, they are all well aware, is treason, although that’s a little way off yet.
It’s brilliantly, albeit swiftly, incremental in its unfolding. Bare fact: the Duke of Lancaster is dead. Ross breaks first: and living too, for now his son is Duke. He recognises Bolingbroke’s rights at least to the title, although doesn’t name him yet. Willoughby: barely in title, not in revenues. Again a statement of fact, but the first reaction to what Richard’s just done: is this said with resignation? or, more likely, bitterness, anger, pointed emphasis. Northumberland senses that he can go further, give an opinion, not merely state fact: richly in both if justice had her right. Bolingbroke has been treated unjustly. Oh, I could go further than that, says Ross; my heart is great, I could say a great deal, if I could speak freely. But that means breaking my silence. (Implicit: can I trust you?) Speak your mind, says Northumberland (I would like to hear that in a broad northern accent, I think; speak tha mind, lad)—and if anyone repeats what you have to say to do thee harm, let him ne’er speak more, that is, let him be silenced. Both a protestation—you can trust me—and a bit of a threat, implicitly to Willoughby: can you be trusted too? Have you got something to say regarding (not to, in the more familiar sense) the Duke of Hereford? Out with it, then, boldly, man; quick is mine ear to hear of good toward him. (He’s gone a little further even than the other two: he is on Bolingbroke’s side, he’s as good as said, and he’s avid to hear of others similarly disposed.) Ross retreats just slightly, cautiously: oh, there’s no good at all that I can do for him, except feeling sorry for him—but then he finishes more assertively and pointedly. Bolingbroke has been bereft and gelded of his patrimony. Bereft is a reminder that he has just lost his father Gaunt too, although here it relates more to the loss of patrimony, inheritance as eldest son and heir, estates in particular, and gelded, castrated, emasculated is stronger still: Bolingbroke has been deprived of his inheritance, of the lands, income, and status that should be his by right. He has been grievously injured as a nobleman, a son, and a man. What are they going to say about this state of affairs? and what are they going to do?
