DUCHESS O King, believe not this hard-hearted man.
Love loving not itself, none other can.
YORK Thou frantic woman, what dost thou make here,
Shall thy old dugs once more a traitor rear?
DUCHESS Sweet York, be patient; hear me, gentle liege—
[She kneels]
BOLINGBROKE Rise up, good aunt.
DUCHESS Not yet, I thee beseech.
For ever will I walk upon my knees
And never see day that the happy sees
Till thou give joy, until thou bid me joy
By pardoning Rutland, my transgressing boy.
AUMERLE Unto my mother’s prayers I bend my knee.
[He kneels]
YORK Against them both my true joints bended be.
[He kneels] (5.3.86-97)
Don’t listen to York! He is cruel, hard-hearted, unkind, even unnatural, in how he’s treating his own son, his own flesh and blood. Love loving not itself, none other can. He should love his son, put him first, above everything else; charity begins at home. (And, implicitly, Aumerle’s your cousin, Bolingbroke. You should remember the closeness of that relationship too.) For the Duchess, family always comes first. York isn’t having any of that: thou frantic woman, are you mad? What the hell are you on about? The way you’re talking, it’s as if Aumerle’s a babe in arms, that you’re going to rear, bring up, once more, putting him to your breast? Are you therefore going to nurture other traitors, too? He’s not helpless, you don’t have to fight his battles. Dugs is contemptuous, especially in combination with old; shut up, you silly old woman, you’re making a fool of yourself. You shut up, is what she says, in effect, even though it’s expressed as sweet York, be patient, but it’s almost as she’s shushing another child, waving him away: hear me, gentle liege. And down she goes on her knees before Bolingbroke.
Awkward. Rise up, good aunt. Come on, this is embarrassing. Oh no, she says, not yet I thee beseech. I’m not going anywhere. For ever will I walk upon my knees (and it is not unknown for the actor to start following him around the stage on her knees, although this is a high risk strategy in a long frock), I won’t have any happiness, I’ll be miserable, till thou give joy, until thou bid me joy—it’s entirely up to you, and in your hands—by pardoning Rutland (Aumerle’s new title, now he’s been stripped of his dukedom; his first name was in fact Edward) my transgressing boy. Oh, he’s been a naughty boy alright, but, let him off.
Aumerle senses that it’s now or never, and he goes down on his knees too, joining his mother in prayer, as it were. And then York joins in: against them both my true joints bended be. I’m the only honourable, honest one here. I’m begging you to be stern, to punish treason, and not give in to this pleading. So all three of the Yorks are on their knees, like some terrible backing group (Aumerle may well look a bit shifty and embarrassed, or rather even more so)—and Bolingbroke must be at once exasperated and amused. How to proceed? (This is a world away from sitting on the ground to tell sad stories of the death of kings… but in its disruption of hierarchy and propriety, it’s not unrelated.)
