YORK Were I but now the lord of such hot youth
As when brave Gaunt, thy father, and myself
Rescued the Black Prince, that young Mars of men,
From forth the ranks of many thousand French,
O then how quickly should this arm of mine,
Now prisoner to the palsy, chastise thee
And minister correction to thy fault.
BOLINGBROKE My gracious uncle, let me know my fault.
On what condition stands it, and wherein?
YORK Even in condition of the worst degree:
In gross rebellion and detested treason.
Thou art a banished man and here art come,
Before the expiration of thy time,
In braving arms against thy sovereign. (2.3.93-111)
I do think that York is a seriously underrated character; perhaps that’s part of the point, an important note for him, that he has to step up in the world of the play, to play a part which (he fears) is beyond him, on the grounds of age and perhaps temperament and ability. There is a touch of pathos here as well as fury: were I but now the lord of such hot youth, if only I had my youthful strength and vigour, recklessness and courage—if only I were as I was when, with my brother Gaunt (thy father, said pointedly; do you think he’d be proud of you, let alone do what you’re doing?) we rescued the Black Prince, that young Mars of men. Gaunt is dead and I am old, but when we were young, we were able to perform such feats, saving the life of the greatest hero and warrior of the age. We rescued him from forth the ranks of many thousand French, and this detail is important not simply for what it implies about courage and strength, but also because of those French: in those days, we knew who our enemies were—the FRENCH—we united against them, we didn’t turn on our own. (Bolingbroke has been in France; he’s been backed and equipped by the Duke of Brittany, effectively those French.) If I were young, how quickly should this arm of mine, now prisoner to the palsy, trembling and wasted with old age, chastise thee. I’d beat you, like the jumped up schoolboy that you are. But I can’t, I’m old; that impotence and frustration, and grief for the loss of strength and of brothers, is part of York’s anger. (There’s a parallel here, close in date, to Beatrice, in Much Ado, about to ask Benedick to challenge Claudio: ‘O, that I were a man!’ And an anticipation of Lear’s yet more pathetic ‘I will do such things—what they are, yet I know not…’)
Bolingbroke plays it cool, with a touch of disingenuousness: My gracious uncle, let me know my fault, on what condition stands it and wherein? But what have I actually done wrong? Can you explain? He’s asking for chapter and verse, an explanation in legal terms (the condition, the circumstance), wresting the issue from one of morality to law. York is not going to engage: your condition is of the worst degree, you have committed a terrible crime, the fault is all yours. You have committed gross rebellion and detested treason, grievous crimes against the state, your sovereign, and against God. And York also spells it out, reminding the audience, as well as Bolingbroke—who really needs no reminding, of the precise nature of the offence: Bolingbroke is a banished man, and he has returned to England before the expiration of his time, before the term of banishment (six years) is up. And he hasn’t sneaked in quietly, either; he’s brought an army with him.
