William: Father, I am afraid, I won't know the way back home.
John Thatcher: Don't be foolish, William, you just follow your feet.
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.
Chaucer: Oh my giddy aunt.
Edward: What a pair we make. 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.
William: I will not lose.
Jocelyn: Then you do not love me.
Chaucer: Very good.
William: Was she watching? Geoff.
Chaucer: What?
William: Did she see me?
Chaucer: Yes, she saw you.
William: Did she see me take the hit?
Chaucer: Yes, she saw you take the hit.
William: Well, was she concerned?
Chaucer: It was dreadful, her eyes welled up, it was awful.
Adhemar: And you are?
William: Well, I am, um.
Adhemar: You've forgotten, or your name is Sir Um?
William: Ulrich von Lichtenstein from Gelderland.
Adhemar: Well, I'd forget as well, what a mouthful.
Wat: What do you mean, dead?
Roland: The spark of his life is smothered in shite. His spirit is gone but his stench remains. Does that answer your question?
Roland: Well, that was different.
Chaucer: Well, it's time we celebrate our differences.
Roland: Just maybe not in public.
Jocelyn: Run and I will run with you.
William: I cannot run.
William: For that I say my rosary to her and no-one else.
Wat: Will, that's blasphemy.
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.
Peter The Pardoner of Rouen: He assured us that you, his liege, would pay us.
William: And you are?
Peter The Pardoner of Rouen: Peter. A humble Pardoner and purveyor of religious relics.
Kate: It is romantic though.
Roland: Are you a woman or a blacksmith?
Kate: Sometimes I'm both.
Wat: All right, I'm about this fonging close mate! I swear to God, Quaisimodo! I oughta.
Jocelyn: I love you. There is nothing else to do. Run and I will run with you.
Kate: With hope, love should end with hope.
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.
Jocelyn: Even the peasants can marry for love.
Answer: Kate, Roland, Wat and Chaucer having a farting contest.
Grumpy Scot