YORK I fear, I fear—
DUCHESS What should you fear?
’Tis nothing but some bond that he is entered into
For gay apparel ’gainst the triumph day.
YORK Bound to himself? What doth he with a bond
That he is bound to? Wife, thou art a fool.
Boy, let me see the writing.
AUMERLE I do beseech you pardon me, I may not show it.
YORK I will be satisfied. Let me see it, I say.
He plucks it out of his bosom and reads it
Treason, foul treason! Villain, traitor, slave! (5.2.64-72)
York hasn’t survived this long without cultivating a healthy level of suspicion about everything, and as the play’s only surviving old man he is sharp as well as given to irascibility. More than anyone, probably, he appreciates what a precarious position Aumerle is already in. I fear, I fear—what should you fear? The Duchess is no fool (despite what York is about to say) but of course she hasn’t been there in all those fraught scenes at Flint, let alone in Westminster Hall; she hasn’t seen Bolingbroke in triumph or Richard laid low—that was why York was having to describe it all to her. And Aumerle’s just her boy, to be humoured and indulged—there’s justification here for making him something of a dandy, perhaps the coolest of Richard’s fashionable favourites, so that his mother can confidently say, oh, it’ll just be that he’s borrowed money to pay for yet another new outfit, so that he can look smart at the tournament, the triumph day. Boys! But York is absolutely right: if this were a bond, a promissory note whereby Aumerle had secured credit, he wouldn’t have the document—it’d be with the person who’d advanced him the money. What doth he with a bond that he is bound to? This must, therefore, be something else. Wife, thou art a fool. Not a fool, perhaps, but a bit unworldly, too inclined to indulge her boy. Boy—no more sir—let me see the writing. Aumerle knows he’s lost this one, and can only plead: I do beseech you pardon me, I may not show it. Please don’t make me, I’m not meant to show anyone. Please, dad. York’s brisk, no nonsense: I will be satisfied. Let me see it, I say. And he snatches it—has he been shouting in Aumerle’s face, already close enough to snatch? There must be a moment of suspense, the Duchess anxious, cross, confused, Aumerle knowing he’s cornered, waiting for the storm to break, while York reads. (The audience doesn’t know exactly what’s written, either, although they might guess that it’s something to do with the plot being mooted by the Abbot of Westminster and the Bishop of Carlisle at the end of the deposition scene.)
York doesn’t hold back. Does he screw up the paper and throw it at his son, tear it up, quickly conceal it inside his own garment—this document in the wrong hands means certain death for Aumerle—as he shouts, enraged, and presumably also terrified: Treason, foul treason! Villain, traitor, slave!
