NORTHUMBERLAND            The noble Duke hath been too much abused.

ROSS                                       It stands your grace upon to do him right.

WILLOUGHBY                        Base men by his endowments are made great.

YORK                                      My lords of England, let me tell you this:

I have had feeling of my cousin’s wrongs

And laboured all I could to do him right.

But in this kind to come—in braving arms

Be his own carver and cut out his way

To find out right with wrong—it may not be.

And you that do abet him in this kind

Cherish rebellion and are rebels all. (2.3.136-146)

Northumberland, Willoughby, and Ross need to assure Bolingbroke of their support, and vocally perform their backing of his cause (I say vocally and perform deliberately, because there’s a musical quality to much of their dialogue, a vocal trio each determined to have his equal say; if one speaks, the other two will follow. Northumberland’s the bass.) Northumberland speaks first, of course, and in a way he’s the most carefully phrased: by referring to Bolingbroke as the noble Duke, he doesn’t repeat the potentially inflammatory and certainly loaded Lancaster; he could simply be titling him the Duke of Hereford. But his support is still clear: Bolingbroke has been abused, ill-treated, insulted by what has been done to him. Ross takes the argument to York: it stands your grace to do him right, it’s up to the Duke of York to right the wrong that has been done; it’s his obligation and his duty. And Willoughby, resentful of the advancement of others and a reminder that there are more abuses being canvassed than just the denial of Bolingbroke’s rightful inheritance: base men by his endowments are made great, it’s not just that the money’s been withheld from him, it’s that it’s been given to upstarts, commoners, parasites.

Poor York. We have, after all, seen him defend Bolingbroke’s right to inherit at the time of Gaunt’s death. As he says—perhaps barely controlling his frustration and his anger—let me tell you this: I have had feeling of my cousin’s wrong; I have felt for the injustice of his situation. And, more than that, I laboured all I could to do him right. I tried my best (to persuade the King not to do what he did, is left implicit). But in this kind to come, to return to press his claim in such a manner—and then a brilliant, revealing conceit—in braving arms be his own carver and cut out his way to find out right with wrong—it may not be. By returning with an army, dressed for war (and braving arms suggests the armour, the banners, the weapons; display and ostentation) Bolingbroke is acting like someone at a dinner party who hacks at a carcass and serves himself without any regard for etiquette or politeness and so insults his host and behaves in a profoundly discourteous, uncivilised way. (A carver was one of the highest ranking table servants in the rituals of early modern elite dining, skilled in knowing the proper way to carve the exotic menagerie of birds and beasts that could turn up on a noble table. There were manuals, with diagrams and elaborate terminology. Never mind knowing how to carve a turkey: what about a swan, a porpoise, or a crane?) Bolingbroke is cutting out his way, hacking through custom and law, and the King’s loyal representatives, to find out right with wrong. His cause may be right—in fact, York as good as says that it is—but his approach, his actions are utterly wrong. It may not be. And you, his chorus of supporters, throwing your lot in with him for whatever reason and so loudly supporting him: you cherish rebellion and are rebels all. You’re as bad as he is.