A Knight's Tale Page #3

Then a fox you shall be until|I find your name, my foxy lady.

He's a handsome hunter.|I give him that.

Does this not shock you, ladies?

Certainly, my lord.

I only laugh just|to keep from weeping.

Beauty is such a curse.

Pray your years come swiftly.

Pray your beauty fades|so you may better serve God.

Oh, I do, my lord. I pray for it all|the time.

Why, God, did you curse me|with this face?

God's will has a purpose,|but we may not know it.

Well, that is lovely.

Sir Ulrich von Lichtenstein...

...defeats Roger Lord Mortimer|one lance to none.

Easy. They'll think I|never broke a lance before.

- But you haven't!|- Ulrich's broken thousands of lances.

Come on. You're due|in the sword ring.

My armor's loose.

Shite. I can't block an overhead.

We can't fix it now.|We're overdue in the sword ring.

It was a mistake to do two events.|I'm too hurried.

- I'll withdraw from the sword.|- Sword's what you're best at.

But the prizes and prestige|are bigger in the joust.

Ulrich von Lichtenstein?|I am Simon the Summoner.

I'm overdue at the sword ring.

I must detain you|on behalf of your herald.

You were never robbed.

I have a gambling problem.

I can't help myself.

And these people will...

...literally take the clothes|off your back.

What are we supposed to do?

He assured us that you,|his liege, would pay us.

And who are you?

Peter, a humble pardoner...

...and purveyor of religious relics.

How much does he owe?

Ten gold florins.

You manky git!

- Pain! Pain! Take the pain!|- Get him off me!

Wat, let him go!

What would you do to him|if I was to refuse?

We, on behalf of the Lord God...

...will take it from his flesh|so that he may understand...

...that gambling is a sin.

Oh, come on.

Please, Will.

Please, will you help me,|Sir Ulrich?

I promise you won't regret it.

I don't have the money.

Release him...

...and give him back his clothes.

And you'll get it.

Done.

You lied.

Yes, I lied. I'm a writer.|I give the truth scope!

Behold my Lord|Ulrich von Lichtenstein, son of--

- Too late. He's been announced.|- Fine.

Ten blows by sword.|Sir Ulrich to receive first.

Strike!

Strike!

Stop letting him hit you!

Shut up! Shut up!

Two strikes for Sir Walter Loring!

Sir Ulrich to strike!

- Now it's your turn!|- Come on!

Strike!

I taught him that!|That's me!

Sir Ulrich prevails,|five strikes to two!

Yes!

Behold my Lord Ulrich!|The rock! The hard place!

Blown far from his homeland|in search of glory and honor!

We walk in the garden|of his turbulence!

Yeah!

- You're champion.|- Of the sword.

Isn't that why we're here? Come on.

Do you want to touch him?|Do you want to touch him?

We should've saved our money|for the blacksmith.

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