DUCHESS       What is the matter, my lord?

YORK              [calls offstage] Ho! Who is within there? Saddle my horse.

God for his mercy, what treachery is here!

DUCHESS       Why, what is it, my lord?

YORK              Give me my boots, I say, saddle my horse.

Now by mine honour, by my life, by my troth,

I will appeach the villain.

DUCHESS                                                       What is the matter?

YORK              Peace, foolish woman.

DUCHESS       I will not peace. What is the matter, son?

AUMERLE      Good mother, be content. It is no more

Than my poor life must answer.

DUCHESS                                                       Thy life answer?

YORK              Bring me my boots.—I will unto the King.

His man enters with his boots

DUCHESS       Strike him, Aumerle! Poor boy, thou art amazed.

[To servingman] Hence villain, never more come in my sight.     (5.2.73-86)

 

Part of the way in which this scene maintains its tension is that it quickly becomes very funny, but the audience isn’t quite sure whether to laugh or not. (They will, but it can be slightly uneasy.) The Duchess absolutely comes into her own, every bit as furious—and as accustomed to getting her own way—as York himself. (Aumerle doesn’t stand a chance, temporarily side-lined by his parents’ rage.) The Duchess doesn’t know what’s going on yet, but she expects to be fully informed, rather than ignored, about the catastrophe that’s clearly unfolding, and she’s polite for long enough, enquiring—entirely reasonably—what is the matter, my lord? Why, what is it, my lord? What is the matter? And York’s simply not replying, entirely focused on getting out the door and on the road, on a mission that’s clearly life-or-death urgent, which he is failing to explain, because he doesn’t have time and, perhaps, because he’s too angry. By mine honour, by my life, by my troth, everything that York holds dear, the code he’s lived by, I will appeach the villain, he says, I will denounce him to the King (it’s perhaps not even clear, yet, that that villain is Aumerle).

 

The Duchess finally loses patience, unsurprisingly, at peace, foolish woman. Don’t you tell me to be quiet, let alone call me a fool. I will not peace. So she tries Aumerle, to see if she can anything sensible out of him (as he cowers…) What is the matter, son? (Perhaps an abrupt shift in tone, to sweet maternal concern; perhaps a stern demand.) And Aumerle sounds absolutely wretched, even if he’s—perhaps—trying to make a joke? Don’t worry, mum, it is no more than my poor life must answer. It’s only a matter of life or death. It’s only my life hanging in the balance, which I must pay in forfeit. Thy life answer? And horror, and terror, dawn and the Duchess intervenes, even though she still doesn’t know quite what’s going on. The priority: stop York getting out the door, so, prevent him putting his boots on, so, strike the innocent servant who’s brought the boots. Aumerle, however, is amazed, dazed and confused; it seems unlikely that he strikes the servingman as ordered, so perhaps the Duchess has a go herself; she certainly insults him, tells him to get out of her sight. (The stage directions remain nicely open as to whether the servant does leave when she tells him to.)

 

I love the conjuring of a world here, a household, networks of relationships that go beyond family, and also a way of life. An urgent journey: saddle my horse. And the boots, essential not only for riding, but to evoke that journey on stage, where the horse cannot appear. But putting on your own boots is difficult: the servant quite possibly needed not only to bring the boots, but to help York into them, and ending up caught in the crossfire. (More opportunity for comedy, trying to help someone into boots, tricky enough, while they have an explosive family row.)