YORK Thou fond mad woman,
Wilt thou conceal this dark conspiracy?
A dozen of them here have ta’en the sacrament
And interchangeably set down their hands
To kill the King at Oxford.
DUCHESS He shall be none.
We’ll keep him here. Then what is that to him?
YORK Away fond woman! Were he twenty times my son
I would appeach him.
DUCHESS Hadst thou groaned for him
As I have done, thou’dst be more pitiful. (5.2.95-103)
Well it’s not quite a piece of lyric beauty for Shakespeare’s 405th death-day (more certainly than his 457th birthday). But finally the truth comes out: a dark conspiracy, to assassinate the new King, Bolingbroke, at the tournament at Oxford. York is addressing his wife as fond, foolish, and mad out of exasperation (and fear), but also pragmatism: it’s not just that she’s crazy in moral terms to condone, by concealing, such a treasonous crime, it’s that this sort of thing can’t be concealed, and it would be insane to think otherwise. Bolingbroke’s demonstrated that he is ruthless and efficient; the lords have shown that they’re quite prepared to sell each other out to save their own skins. So this is what the Abbot of Westminster was planning, and it’s not just Aumerle who’s signed up, and sworn the most solemn oath, by taking the Eucharist as a pledge; there’s a good number of them, a dozen or so. Interchangeably set down their hands explains why Aumerle has a copy, with a seal and all the signatures: they’ve each got a copy, and everyone’s signed every copy—so if one man rats, then everyone’s incriminated—and if anyone defaults, then there’s still abundant evidence that he had been committed enough to sign up in the first place, even if he tried to change his mind.
The Duchess is quite clear, however, that this is not an obstacle.He shall be none. We’ll keep him here.We just won’t let him go; we’ll lock him up for his own good, keep him safe. Then his scary bit of paper, any promises he’s made, they don’t count for anything: then what is that to him? Problem solved. But York is made of much, much sterner stuff: Away, fond woman! It makes no difference that he’s my son. Were he twenty times my son I would appeach him—because he’s a traitor, and I can’t stand treachery. (And also, because if he falls, we may well go down with him—perhaps?) But if you’d groaned for him, with the pains of labour, as I have done, you would be more pitiful, the Duchess protests. It’s interesting, perhaps, that she asks for pity, not for mercy: she is not interested in questions of right or justice here (and whether or not York’s even in a position to show mercy is moot; that would probably be Bolingbroke’s prerogative). No, she asks him to be pitiful, to show pity, sympathy, to show that he has a heart. It’s an appeal to his emotions as a father, and he and Aumerle are, after all, the only father and son left in the play.
