YORK God for his mercy, what a tide of woes
Comes rushing on this woeful land at once!
I know not what to do. I would to God,
So my untruth had not provoked him to it,
The King had cut off my head with my brother’s.
What, are there no posts dispatched for Ireland?
How shall we do for money for these wars?
Come, sister—cousin I would say—pray pardon me.
Go, fellow, get thee home, provide some carts
And bring away the armour that is there. Exit Servant. (2.2.98-107SD)
Poor York, panicked, muddled, despairing. What a tide of woes comes rushing on this woeful land at once! In his brother Gaunt’s formulation, England had (not long since) been bound in with the triumphant sea, whose rocky shore beat back the envious siege of watery Neptune (2.1.61-3). Now England is swamped, by invasion, and by a tidal wave of trouble and distress. I know not what to do. (December 2020, there are moments when all we can say is, York, strong agree.) I almost wish I were dead, that the King had executed me, like my brother Gloucester—except I wouldn’t want to have done anything dishonourable, told a lie, actually been guilty of treason. Honour remains vital to York, even if he cannot quite imagine, in these circumstances, what it might look like and how it might play out. What, in these times, is the honourable course?
So, enough of the existential crisis, and try to deal with practicalities. Are there no posts dispatched for Ireland—does the King even know that Bolingbroke has invaded, to lead a rebellion? Has someone told him, by post, a fast messenger? (Editors point out that in the chronicle sources, it took six weeks for the news to get to Richard in Ireland, because of bad weather. York’s conceit of the tide of woes, of the violence of the waves is a reminder of the unpredictability of the Irish Sea, and that it is not simply time and distance but weather and water that will hinder the King’s return.) And the most pressing thing, perhaps:how shall we do for money for these wars? The Crown is bankrupt, the nobles and commons (if they haven’t already gone over to Bolingbroke) drained by Richard’s taxes and forced loans. Another switch, remembering that the Queen is there, but in his panic and distraction thinking that she’s his sister, that is, his sister-in-law, the Duchess of Gloucester, of whose death he’s just learned and of whom he is therefore, of course, thinking; York gets as far as correcting himself—cousin, I would say, that is, niece-in-law (cousin being a more generic and elastic term for relation)—but he doesn’t get as far as finishing the thought, switching again. A pathetically practical instruction to the hovering, apologetic servant: go, fellow, get thee home, provide some carts and bring away the armour that is there. Go to my house, get carts, wagons, any sort of transport, and rummage around for armour; bring anything you can find. (Historically York would probably have had an armoury with at least some stock of arms, weapons held in readiness, and it’s weapons that he mostly means—but the impression here to modern ears is of a supermarket sweep through a stately home, ripping trophies from the walls and carrying off suits of armour from the hall.)
