Chaucer: You're good. You're very good. My lords, my ladies, and everybody else here not sitting on a cushion!
Chaucer: Today... today, you find yourselves equals.
Chaucer: For you are all equally blessed. For I have the pride, the privilege, nay, the pleasure of introducing to you to a knight, sired by knights. A knight who can trace his lineage back beyond Charlemagne. I first met him atop a mountain near Jerusalem, praying to God, asking his forgiveness for the Saracen blood spilt by his sword. Next, he amazed me still further in Italy when he saved a fatherless beauty from the would-be ravishing of her dreadful Turkish uncle.
Chaucer: In Greece he spent a year in silence just to better understand the sound of a whisper. And so without further gilding the lily and with no more ado, I give to you, the seeker of serenity, the protector of Italian virginity, the enforcer of our Lord God, the one, the only, Sir Ulllrrrich von Lichtenstein!
Chaucer: Thank you, thank you, I'll be here all week.
Prince Edward: [sighs] What a pair we make, huh? Both trying to hide who we are, both unable to do so. Your men love you. If I knew nothing else about you, that would be enough. But you also tilt when you should withdraw... and that is knightly, too.
Prince Edward: [to guards] Release him.
[Edward turns to crowd]
Prince Edward: He may appear to be of humble origins, but my personal historians have discovered that he is descendent from an ancient royal line.
Prince Edward: This is my word... and, as such, is beyond contestation.
Prince Edward: [turns to William] Now, if I may repay the kindness you once showed me... take a knee.
[draws his sword]
Prince Edward: By the power vested in me by my father, King Edward, and by all the witnesses here, I dub thee Sir William.
Prince Edward: [silencing crowd] Arise... Sir William. Can you joust?
Prince Edward: There's my tournament to finish. Now, are you fit to compete, or shall the forfeit stand?
William: No, I'm fit.
Prince Edward: I shall have your opponent informed of it. You look for his shield in the lists... at once.
William: Thank you, my lord.
[Keeping beat for a dance lesson]
Chaucer: And one and two and three and four and your hands should be light like a birdie on a branch. And one and two and three and four and Wat doesn't lead he follows like a girl.
[Wat punches him. Scene changes, and Chaucer now has a tissue stuck up one nostril]
Chaucer: And one and two and twirlie twirlie twirlie! And one and two and you're still getting it wrong! And one and two and three and four you can hit me all day cause you punch like a... what?
Roland: A girl!
Wat: [in a letter] I miss you like the sun misses the flower. Like the sun misses the flower in the depths of winter. Instead of beauty to direct its light to the heart hardens like the frozen world your absence has banished me to.
Wat: Uh, betray us, and I will fong you, until your insides are out, your outsides are in, your entrails will become your extrails I will w-rip... all the p... ung. Pain, lots of pain.
Adhemar: You have been weighed, you have been measured, and you have been found wanting. In what world could you possibly beat me?
Prince Edward: Your men love you. If I knew nothing else about you, that would be enough.
William: Oi sir, what are you doing?
Chaucer: Uh... trudging. You know, trudging?
Chaucer: To trudge: the slow, weary, depressing yet determined walk of a man who has nothing left in life except the impulse to simply soldier on.
William: Uhhh... were you robbed?
Chaucer: [laughs] Funny really, yes, but at the same time a huge resounding no. It's more of an... involuntary vow of poverty... really.
John Thatcher: Change your stars and live a better life than I have.
Chaucer: Good people, I missed my introduction. But please... Please I pray you, hear it now, for I would lay rest the grace in my tongue and speak plainly. Days like these are far too rare to cheapen with heavy handed words, and so, I'm afraid without any ado whatsoever... Excuse me My Lord... Here he is, one of your own, born a stone's throw from this very stadium, and here before you now, the son of John Thatcher... Sir Wiiiiiilliam Thatcheeer.
William: It is strange to think, I haven't seen you since a month. I have seen the new moon, but not you. I have seen sunsets and sunrises, but nothing of your beautiful face. The pieces of my broken heart are so small that they could be passed through the eye of a needle. I miss you like the sun misses the flower; like the sun misses the flower in the depths of winter. Instead of beauty to direct its light to, the heart hardens like the frozen world your absence has banished me to. I next compete in the city of Paris, I will find it empty and in the winter if you are not there. Hope guides me, that is what gets me through the day and especially the night. The hope that after you're gone from my sight, it will not be the last time that I look upon you.
Old Bishop: [after William rides into the cathedral on a horse to woo Jocelyn] Ladies! Does this not shock you?
Jocelyn: [feigning sadness] I only laugh to keep from weeping.
Old Bishop: I know, child. Pray that the years come quickly for you, taking your beauty so that you may better serve Him.
Jocelyn: I do, every day.
[raises hands to face]
Jocelyn: God, why did you curse me with this face?
Old Bishop: God has a plan we know not.
[offers hand to Jocelyn to kiss]
Jocelyn: [goes to kiss hand, but instead admires a costly ring on his finger] Oh, that is lovely...
Jocelyn: Sir Ulrick. What are you wearing to the ball tonight?
William: Er... nothing...
Jocelyn: Well, we shall cause a sensation, for I'll dress to match.
William: [annoyed] Don't you ever get tired of putting on clothes?
Chaucer: [whispers] I believe she was talking about taking them off, sir.
Jocelyn: A flower is only as good as its petals. Don't you think?
William: A flower is good for nothing. You can't eat a flower, a flower can't keep you warm...
Jocelyn: And a rose never knocked a man off a horse either, did it?
William: You're just a silly girl aren't you.
Jocelyn: Better a silly girl with a flower, than a silly boy with a horse and a stick...
[she walks away]
Wat: It's called a lance. Heellooo?
Chaucer: Now I got their attention, you go and win their hearts.
Prince Edward: If I may repay the kindness you once showed me. Take a knee...
Wat: Say something about her breasts.
Roland: Yeah, you miss her breasts.
William: Her breasts.
Chaucer: Ye... yes, you... you could, umm... umm... but I... I would tend to look above her breasts, William.
William: Well I... I miss her throat.
Chaucer: Uh, still higher really, toward the heavens.
Kate: The moon at least, her breasts were not that impressive.
Chaucer: It's a small target Will, but aim for his heart.
William: Well then a fox you shall be until I find your name, my foxy lady.
William: [on asking Kate to mend his armour] It's just as well, they told me I was daft for even asking.
William: The other armourers.
Kate: Did they say I couldn't do it because I'm a woman?
William: No, they said you were great with horseshoes, but shite with armour. The fact that you were a woman wasn't even mentioned.
Jocelyn: Do not shush me, and spare him. Now be gone! Go!
William: Love has given me wings so I must fly.
William: If I could ask God one thing, it would be to stop the moon. Stop the moon and make this night and your beauty last forever.
William: I'm Ulrich von Leichtenstein, from Guilderland, and these are my faithful squires.
[gestures to Roland]
William: Delves, of Dogington,
[gestures to Wat]
William: and Falhurst, of Crew.
Chaucer: I'm Richard the Lionheart. Pleased to meet you. No, wait a minute, I'm Charlemagne. No, I'm Saint John the Baptist!
[William draws a large knife]
William: All right, hold your tongue sir, or lose it.
Chaucer: Now you see *that* I do believe, Sir Ulrich.
[trying to convince the squires to bet that William will win, when they believe the French knight will win]
French Squire: An Englishman will not win this French tournament. English legs are unsteady on French soil.
French Squire: And because French wine is too much for English bellies.
French Squire: And most importantly, because the Pope himself is French.
Roland: [finally gives in] Well, the Pope may be French, but Jesus is bloody English! You're on!
Chaucer: I will eviscerate you in fiction. Every pimple, every character flaw. I was naked for a day; you will be naked for eternity.
William: Can you keep a secret?
[the lone girl nods]
William: I was born in Cheapside, in that house over there.
[points it out to the girl]
Lone Girl in Cheapside: Really? I live just there.
[points to the house across from it]
William: Wait, how old are you?
Lone Girl in Cheapside: Nine and one half, sir.
William: Nine and one half. I wonder, can you remember a man, although probably died just before you were born. He was as tall as a knight, his name was John Thatcher.
Lone Girl in Cheapside: Well of course I remember him.
William: You do?
Lone Girl in Cheapside: Yeah, he lives there still.
[William is shocked]
Lone Girl in Cheapside: Sometimes you can see him looking from his window, though no one knows why.
William: What do you mean?
Lone Girl in Cheapside: He's blind, sir.
Wat: We're the sons of peasants. Glory, and riches, and stars are beyond our grasps. But a full stomach, that dream can come true.
Kate: With hope, love should end with hope
Wat: All right, I'm about this fonging close mate! I swear to God, Quaisimodo! I oughta...
Adhemar: Your armor, sir.
William: What about it?
Adhemar: How stylish of you to joust in an antique. You'll start a new fashion if you win. My grandfather will be able to wear his in public again, and a shield, how quaint.
[William rides off]
Adhemar: Some of these poor country knights, little better then peasants.
Young William Thacher: Someday, I'll be a knight.
Chaucer: Yes, Master Falhurst, I'm well aware a good fawning is on the way.
Germaine: But this Lichtenstein... his technique, rudimentary... style, non-existent. Still, he's fearless.
Chaucer: Geoffrey Chaucer's the name, writing's the game.
[Turns away, turns back]
Chaucer: Chaucer? Geoffrey Chaucer, the writer?
Chaucer: A what?
Chaucer: A wha- a what? A writer. You know, I write, with ink and parchment. For a penny, I'll scribble you anything you want. From summons, decrees, edicts, warrants, patents of nobility. I've even been know to jot down a poem or two, if the muse descends. You've probably read my book? the Book of the Duchess?
[They look at each other, shake their heads]
Chaucer: Fine. Well, it was allegorical.
Roland: Well, we won't hold that against you, that's for every man to decide for himself.
William: I'll ride in his place.
Roland: What's your name, William? I'm asking you William Thatcher, to answer me with your name? It's not Sir William. It's not Count, or Duke or Earl William. It's certainly not King William.
William: I'm aware of that.
Roland: You have to be of noble birth to compete!
William: A detail. The landscape is food. Do you want to eat or don't you?
Roland: If the nobles find out who you are there'll be the devil to pay.
William: Then pray that they don't.
Adhemar: You have been weighed, you have been measured, and you have been found wanting. Come back when you're worthy.
Chaucer: [singing] He's quick, he's funny, he makes me lots of money, Lichtenstein! Lichtenstein!
Wat: We're English, Geoff! We know who he is!
Jocelyn: Even the peasants can marry for love.
Chaucer: Oh my giddy aunt.
Chaucer: Look, I have a gambling problem. I can't help myself. And these people will - quite literally - take off clothes of your back.
William: What are you expecting us to do about it?
Peter The Pardoner of Rouen: He assured us that you, his liege, would pay us.
William: And who are you?
Peter The Pardoner of Rouen: Peter, a humble pardoner and purveyor of religious relics.
William: How much does he owe you?
Simon The Summoner of Rouen: Ten gold florins.
William: What would you do to him, if I was to refuse?
Simon The Summoner of Rouen: We, on behalf of the Lord God, would take him of his flesh, so that he may understand that gambling is a sin.
William: Should we help him?
Jocelyn: I love you. There is nothing else to do. Run and I will run with you.
Roland: Well, Master Nude, having failed the test, have you any more to say?
Chaucer: I give the truth, scope!
Old Bishop: You desecrate the House of God!
Germaine: My Lord, the Count Adehmar, Son of Phillip DeVitry, son of Gilles... er... Master of the Free Companies, defender of his enormous manhood, a shining example of chivalry and champagne.