A Knight's Tale

In medieval times, a sport arose.

Embraced by noble and peasant fans alike...

...though only noble knights could compete.

The sport was jousting.

For one of these knights, an over-the-hill former champion...

...it was the end.

But for his peasant squire, William...

...it was merely the beginning.

Should we help him?

He's due in the lists in two minutes. Two minutes or forfeit.

Lend us those.

Right. Left.

- Dead. - Eh?

Three scores to none after two lances.

As long as Sir Ector doesn't fall off his horse, we've won.

He's dead.

- What do you mean? - His life's spark is covered in shite.

His spirit is gone but his stench remains.

- Does that answer your question? - No, no, no.

No, he sleeps. Rouse him.

I haven't eaten in three days!

None of us have!

- Let's fetch a priest. - No, he's not dead!

You wake up! Come on!

Come on!

You manky git!

Roland.

Squire, Sir Ector must report at once or forfeit the match.

He's on his way.

I haven't eaten in three days!

Three days! What did you eat, mate?!

If you wasn't dead, I would kill you!

I'll ride in his place.

Strip his armor. I'm riding in his place.

Wat, stop kicking him! I'm riding in his place. Help me.

What's your name, William?

William Thatcher, answer me with your name.

It's not Sir William.

It's not Count or Duke or King William.

I know that.

You must be of noble birth to compete.

A detail. The landscape is food. Do you want to eat or not?

If the nobles find out, there'll be the devil to pay.

Then pray that they don't.

Visor.

Come on, we're late.

The score stands at three lances to none in favor of Sir Ector.

Lord Philip of Aragon.

Stand ye ready?

Sir Ector. Stand ye ready?

Ready?

I tilted against Sir Ector many times.

In practice as his target. You never struck him.

- Badger me not with details. - The landscape. Stay on the horse.

He needs 3 points. He has to knock you off the horse.

I know how to score, Roland.

I've waited my whole life for this moment.

For Sir Ector to shite himself to death?

Get it in the cradle. In the cradle.

Get it in the cradle!

William, are you alive?

- We won! We won! - Can you hear me?

Get off me! William, can you hear me?

We won!

He's breathing. He's breathing!

Sir Ector.

Sir Ector. Remove your helmet.

My lord, the final blow of the lance has bent it onto my head.

He says the final blow of the--

I present your champion, my lord.

Twenty.

No, 10.

- Fifteen. - Done.

Very good. Cheers.

Fifteen silver florins. He didn't want that.

That's five for William.

Five for Wat. Five for Roland, who's going home to England.

Straight to the pub for me. Eel pie, brie tart...

...tansy cakes with peppermint cream.

We could do this.

We've done it, boy. That's silver in your hand.

No, I mean, we can do this. We can be champions.

Give us your coins.

Give me your coins.

Now, that's one for you.

And one... for you.

Which leaves 13.

That's 13 for training and outfitting.

The tournament in Rouen is in a month.

We could split a bigger prize.

In one month we'd be on our way to glory and riches.

Or lying in a ditch with Sir Ector. William, I just want to go home.

Tansy cakes. Dilled veal balls. I'll take my five now.

Oh, wait up.

You're going the wrong way!

You can't even joust.

Most of it is the guts to take a blow. Guts I have.

And technique? I have a month to learn that.

And name a man better with a sword than I am.

- In the practice ring. - You're not of noble birth.

So, we lie.

How did the nobles become noble in the first place?

They took it at the tip of a sword. I'll do it with a lance.

- A blunted lance. - No matter, Wat.

A man can change his stars. I won't spend the rest of my life as nothing.

That is nothing. And that's where glory will take us.

We're peasants. Glory and riches are beyond our grasp.

But a full stomach? That dream can come true.

If you can take your coins, go eat cake in England.

But if you can't, you come with me.

You see? Money doesn't matter.

See how hungry I am?!

- Do you?! - Damn your stomach, Wat!

Roland, please.

With 13 silver pieces, three men can change their stars.

God love you, William.

I know, I know. No one else will.

Unlucky.

- I think he's getting worse. - He is getting worse.

Switch.

Switch.

Glory and riches. Glory and riches!

You see how dangerous it is?

Faster! Faster! All right, use those legs!

Come on, Roland. Faster! Faster!

- You missed it. - You've done it dozens of times.

Well, I guess that means we should do it again.

Come on.

Come on, ponies.

Fong him.

Faster. Balance.

No, slower. Keep it steady.

I got it! Look, I got it!

Any minute now.

- Yes, better. - Nice.

- It's my turn to ride. - No.

We haven't reached the marker. And you shouldn't.

How would it look if my squire rode while I walked?

I don't give a witch's teat! It's my turn! It's my turn!

Maybe nobody should ride. The horse is not what he used to be.

Fine. Fine.

Morning.

Morning.

Hoy, sir.

What are you doing?

Uh... trudging.

You know, trudging? To trudge?

To trudge the slow, weary...

...depressing, yet determined walk of a man who has nothing left...

...except the impulse to simply soldier on.

Were you robbed?

Interesting question. Yes.

And at the same time, a huge, resounding, "No."

It's more a sort of involuntary vow of poverty, really.

But on the brighter side, trudging does represent pride.

Pride, resolve and faith in the good Lord Almighty.

Please, Christ, rescue me from my current...

...tribulations.

Who are you?

Lilium inter spinas.

The lily among the thorns.

Geoffrey Chaucer's the name. Writing's the game.

Chaucer?

Geoffrey Chaucer, the writer?

- A what? - "A what?" A writer.

I write with ink and parchment. For a penny, I'll scribble anything.

Summonses, decrees, edicts, warrants, patents of nobility.

I've been known to jot down a poem, if the muse descends.

You probably read my book, The Book of the Duchess.

Well, it was allegorical.

We won't hold it against you. Each man decides that for himself.

Did you say patents of nobility?

That's right. I did.

And you gentlemen are?

I am Sir Ulrich von Lichtenstein from Gelderland.

These are my faithful squires, Delves of Dodgington...

...and Fowlehurst of Crewe.

I'm Richard the Lionheart. A pleasure.

No, I'm Charlemagne! John the Baptist!

All right!

Hold your tongue, sir, or lose it.

Now you see that, I do believe...

...Sir Ulrich.

Thank you, Geoff.

Have you any more to say, Master Nude, or may we be on our way?

- Off to the tournament? - This is the road to Rouen.

That remains to be seen. They're limiting the field at Rouen.

Noble birth must be established for four generations on either side.

Patents of nobility must be provided.

Listen, clothe me...

...shoe me, for God's sake, feed me and you'll have your patents.

No.

- Patents of nobility. - We need him. We need him.

- Let me handle it. - Be nice.

Nice, nice, nice.

All right.

Betray us and I will fong you until your insides are out...

...your outsides are in and your entrails are your extrails.

Pain.

Lots of pain.