A Field in England

(MARCHING DRUMBEAT)

(MISSILE WHISTLING)

- (EXPLOSION)

- (MAN GASPING)

- TROWER (IN DISTANCE): Whitehead!

- (MAN GASPING)

(EXPLOSION)

TROWER:
Where are you? Whitehead!

- (GASPING)

- (HORSE WHINNYING)

(EXPLOSION)

TROWER:
I know you're there!

You can't hide from me!

- (MEN SHOUTING)

- Oh! Please, God!

Don't let him find me.

- (GUNSHOTS)

- (HORSES WHINNYING)

TROWER:
I can smell you!

(MEN SHOUTING)

(GUNSHOTS)

Friend?

Hey, friend?

Your name?

Give me your name.

- (GUNSHOTS)

- Whitehead!

Where are you, man?

You simpering dwarf!

(MEN SHOUTING)

WHITEHEAD:
Don't let him find me.

Whitehead! I know you're there!

Where are you?

Six months, to root out one Irishman!

- (MEN SHOUTING)

- (WHINNYING)

Six months, Whitehead!

- Rid me of that pompous arse.

- Instead, what do you find? The enemy!

Please hear me.

TROWER:
I care not what the master

might say. No more mummery!

You're finished, scrivener!

- Hey, friend!

- I'll hang you from the nearest tree!

I've got you! There you are, you coward!

This is the place, sir.

I am certain this time.

- He is here!

- Lies!

Astrology cannot be an exact business

if the questions are ill-defined

or the person or individual is sort...

Damn your impudence,

you obsequious little turd!

- (SCREAMS)

- Oh, my god!

- (GROANS)

- (EXPLOSIONS CONTINUE)

(GROANING)

(LOUD EXPLOSION)

Your privy parts are doomed, homunculus!

- (WHISPERS) Come here.

- (GUN CLICKS)

No, thank you!

(SHUDDERS) Oh!

Bawd's bastard.

Looks like your prayer is answered.

(WHIMPERS)

(CHOKING)

What do you see, friend?

(GASPING)

Nothing, perhaps.

Only shadows.

- (MARCHING DRUMBEAT)

- (MEN SHOUTING)

(GUNSHOT)

(GUNSHOT)

(WIND WHISTLING)

(MISSILE WHISTLING)

(MISSILE WHISTLING)

(EARS RINGING)

(MUFFLED EXPLOSIONS)

(EARS RINGING)

(MUFFLED SPEECH)

I cannot hear!

(EARS RINGING)

Oh!

(GROANING)

Please!

(CHANTING IN THE DISTANCE)

(GUNSHOTS IN THE DISTANCE)

(SIGHS)

Has he passed?

Shame.

Bit soft in the head but good with a pike.

We should pray.

- You got anything to eat?

- Ah, no, sir.

(SIGHS) Last thing I ate was a stoat.

A Welsh one at that.

Oh, f*** it.

I ain't going back over.

- What about you?

- Oh, my man is dead.

- (GUNSHOTS)

- I'm my own man.

There is another I am beholden to,

my master.

(SIGHS) There's always others, brother.

No doubt he'll find you.

They usually do.

Especially if they want their boots cleaned

or the boils on their arses burst.

F*** it.

This wars not been run to my liking.

Too much f***ing marching about.

Not enough grub.

I'd give anything for a...

A good stew and a bellyful of beer.

I was stopped a ways into the field

when I hear the commotion.

- You...

- Oh! Oh!

- Easy, friend!

- Ahhh!

- He was with the other lot!

- I am not your enemy, sir!

- Easy, now!

- (GRUNTS)

I am not a soldier!

- What the f*** are you, then?

- I am a coward, sir!

And what about you?

What dispensation do you claim?

There are no sides here, friend.

Let's stop acting like a bunch of c*nts.

And we shall forge an alliance

at the alehouse I passed earlier.

What say you?

(GROANING)

(COUGHING)

Did someone mention ale?

(FARTS) Ugh.

(MARCHING DRUMBEAT)

(EXPLOSION)

I should go back, suffer the consequences

of my failed mission.

What mission would that be, Mary?

Pegging out the wash?

I am not at liberty to discuss

my master's business.

Perhaps he's right.

Perhaps we should all go back and suffer.

- (GUNSHOT)

- I feel that is what I do best anyway.

Jesus Christ could be here any minute.

We wouldn't want him

to find us running away.

We're not running away.

We're going for beer, right?

Perhaps he is right. Beer has its own way

of sorting things out, does it not?

Forwards is back. 'Tis all the same.

God will find all as easy over

a card table as swinging from a tree.

(MEN SHOUTING IN THE DISTANCE)

Allow me.

Ugh.

Sorry. (SPITS)

Er...

- (GUNSHOTS)

- Sorry.

Got orders to catch this fella once.

- (GUNSHOT)

- Stole a tablecloth.

There was no trees to hang him from,

though, see.

We'd burnt 'em all for firewood.

Difficult business,

hanging a man without a tree.

- You all right?

- I am not a soldier!

I'm not accustomed to this trajectory.

Go f***ing back, then. Go on. Piss off.

He must not go back!

Your man said you would hang, did he not?

Can you be certain all

his loyal men are dead

and do not wait to wring your neck

like a wet mop?

You are as good as dead to them

this side of the hedgerow.

Leave it to that, surely, friend.

Well, if God Almighty

shall preserve my life,

I may hereafter add many great things

and much light to my art!

What's he say?

He says the next time his master

sends him on a job he won't f*** it up.

Good, good, good.

Say, I see nothing

but sh*t and thistles all about.

- Where's this alehouse, exactly?

- Across the field and beyond.

- And you are paying, you say?

- CUTLER:
You'll eat first, though.

I have fire, a pot,

and something in it I was working at

before I heard that business at the lane.

If nothing else, it'll fill your stomachs.

COOPER:
So, you'll not go back there?

I am not accustomed to making decisions,

but self-preservation fuels me, I admit.

We shall sample a better quality

of suffering in this man's company,

I feel certain.

(MARCHING DRUMBEAT)

We shall stop for but

a short time, though.

I may not be running, but I have

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