BERKELEY                 My lord of Hereford, my message is to you.

BOLINGBROKE          My lord, my answer is to ‘Lancaster’,

And I am come to seek that name in England,

And I must find that title in your tongue

Before I make reply to aught you say.

BERKELEY                 Mistake me not, my lord, ’tis not my meaning

To raze one tittle of your honour out.

To you, my lord, I come—what lord you will—

From the most gracious regent of this land,

The Duke of York, to know what pricks you on

To take advantage of the absent time

And fright our native peace with self-borne arms. (2.3.69-80)

 

The temperature shoots up several degrees—or possibly down—with this encounter. Berkeley is not really in the wrong and he’s being perfectly courteous and polite, addressing Bolingbroke as my lord of Hereford (Percy and Northumberland did the same a moment ago and didn’t get their heads bitten off)—but here it allows Bolingbroke to do some serious sabre-rattling and line-drawing, in this moment of 0-60 do-you-know-who-I-am which also allows him to make clear to the nobles who’ve spent the last few minutes fawning on him that he is not simply a pretty face and a winning way with words. My lord, my answer is to ‘Lancaster’: if you’ve got anything to say to me, use my proper title, that of Duke of Lancaster which I assumed on the death of my father, John of Gaunt. I must find that title in your tongue before I make reply to aught you say, he warns Berkeley; not listening, not talking, until you give me my proper rank and, more importantly and implicitly, recognise my right to come here, to England, from exile, to claim it. (And that’s all I’m claiming, he could add—but, perhaps tellingly, doesn’t.)

 

Whoa whoa whoa, says Berkeley, backing off. My bad, didn’t mean to offend you, don’t get all upset, honest slip: I don’t mean to raze one tittle of your honour out. Berkeley puns on title and tittle, as in jot or tittle, a pen-stroke, the smallest bit of a letter, never mind a word, protesting that he wouldn’t dream of denying Bolingbroke his rightful rank, he wouldn’t, as it were, cross it out, or rather raze it out, scrape it from the surface of the page (a common way of correcting or altering a document when writing on parchment). He pulls himself together and tries again: To you, my lord, I come, and the title’s up to you, what lord you will, and I’m only here as a messenger, don’t shoot etc., I’m here on behalf of the most gracious regent of the land, the Duke of York. He wants to know what pricks you on, what your problem is, what you’re doing here, taking advantage of the absent time (that is, the absence of the King); you’ve basically invaded from France, frighting our native peace; your self-borne arms are offensive, not defensive, and carried in your own interests.

 

All getting rather tense, all of a sudden…