YORK Peruse this writing here and thou shalt know
The treason that my haste forbids me show.
AUMERLE Remember as thou read’st thy promise passed,
I do repent me, read not my name there,
My heart is not confederate with my hand.
YORK It was, villain, ere thy hand did set it down.
[To Bolingbroke] I tore it from the traitor’s bosom, King.
Fear and not love begets his penitence,
Forget to pity him lest pity prove
A serpent that will sting thee to the heart.(5.3.48-57)
York has the evidence, of course: the bond that he took from Aumerle, with his name and signature not only incriminating him but all his co-conspirators in the plot to murder the King at the Oxford tournament. All Bolingbroke has to do is peruse this writing in order to know the treason that York’s haste forbid him show, that is, that he’s too out of breath still to articulate in full. Aumerle’s frantic, still on his knees? No point in trying to seize back the paper, so all he can do, wretchedly, is plead, reminding Bolingbroke of the promise he—sort of—just made, to show mercy: Remember as thou read’st thy promise passed. I don’t mean it any more, I’ve changed my mind, I repent, please forgive me. Even though my name is there (for he can’t deny it): don’t read it, imagine it’s been erased. My heart is not confederate with my hand; I don’t mean it (although he doesn’t say that he didn’t mean it; this is the question of intention that Bolingbroke has already raised.). And here Aumerle’s hand is both his handwriting, his signature, and the hand that held the pen, his agency, his bond, his word, both literally and figuratively. He ‘put his hand’ to this oath. (Aha! All those gloves, those gages thrown in earnest of oaths. Aumerle’s repudiating an oath here, which he made in the most solemn terms, by taking communion.)
But you did mean it, retorts York, furiously. You meant it even before you signed this bond; you meant it in your heart. Your declared intention was treason and the murder of the King. York’s got his breath back, and he’s going to supply some details. I tore it from the traitor’s bosom; I seized this paper, both emphasising York’s own loyalty to Bolingbroke and giving some context, authenticating the evidence. And he is adamant, rigid, willing to throw his son to the wolves, to accuse and condemn him. Fear and not love begets his penitence, he tells Bolingbroke: he’s only sorry because he’s been caught; he’s not repenting out of renewed loyalty, or familial affection, but because he’s terrified. If you pity him, if you show mercy, it could backfire, you could well come to regret it. Your pity now could end up being the serpent that stings you, a viper in your bosom. And, given the back-stabbings and betrayals that have marked the play, York may well have a point. Aumerle cringes on, unable to get a word in, but also perhaps too abjectly terrified to speak.
