BOLINGBROKE          Myself—a prince by fortune of my birth,

Near to the King in blood and nea’er in love

Till you did make him misinterpret me—

Have stooped my neck under your injuries

And sighed my English breath in foreign clouds,

Eating the bitter bread of banishment

Whilst you have fed upon my signories,

Disparked my parks and felled my forest woods,

From my own windows torn my household coat,

Razed out my imprese, leaving me no sign

Save men’s opinions and my living blood

To show the world I am a gentleman.         (3.1.16-27)

This is the third and final prong of Bolingbroke’s attack on Bushy and Green and, through them, on King Richard: finally, and at the greatest length, he sets out the ways in which they have personally injured him. This too is directed as much at the audience, and at the onstage hearers, when he first reminds them that he is a prince by fortune of my birth, near to the King in blood. He is of royal descent; his claim to the throne is nearly as strong as Richard’s. By any reckoning, he is probably Richard’s heir; he is one of his closest living relatives. But more than that, they used to be close, he said, nearer in love than even their close family ties, their blood, would suggest. Till you did make him misinterpret me. (A brief and partial return to the idea that Richard is weak, swayed by evil counsellors.) My banishment, my subjection, the pain of my exile—it was all your fault. I stooped my neck under your injuries; in an evocative description of the loneliness, suffering and alienation of banishment, I sighed my English breath in foreign clouds, eating the bitter bread of banishment. (Interestingly, the language Bolingbroke uses here is far more closely reminiscent of Mowbray’s speeches, when the two of them were banished. If we remember that, we perhaps unthinkingly retrospectively ascribe those eloquent and striking words to Bolingbroke instead.)

And I was suffering in exile whilst you have fed upon my signories, stolen the income from my estates. You have disparked my parks and felled my forest woods. Property crime, always the most reliable way to anger an Englishman! You’ve taken what was rightfully mine! Here a park is a hunting park, enclosed and set apart for aristocratic sport: in a way, Bolingbroke is accusing Bushy and Green of both trespassing and stealing, of encroaching on his prerogative as an aristocrat. They’ve stolen his wood, a major source of revenue for landowners, grown as timber for building and as fuel for charcoal burning. And to accuse them of felling the forest also implicates Bushy and Green (both ironically and fortuitously, given their actual historical names) in the despoiling of the land so fiercely and prophetically described and denounced by John of Gaunt. They’ve trashed the sceptr’d isle; they’ve trashed England. And then a detail that’s probably anachronistic, and might even be metaphorical, but is still telling: from my own windows torn my household coat, razed out my imprese… You’ve removed my coats of arms, defaced my heraldic insignia—not least from my windows (and the suggestion of the broken windows adds to the sense of wanton destruction of property). You’ve tried to obliterate my identity, my identity as a gentleman, as well as a true born Englishman (his last words as he was banished back in 1.3). But—as he more or less says—I remain a gentleman, partly because of my noble blood, but also because of men’s opinions. Despite everything that’s been done to me—by you (and by the King)—I remain a man of honour.