— You speak strangely.
— Yes, we are Scottish, my lord.
— Scottish? You've come to kill us all in our beds? First the old man and now this group! Why do the Scottish suadenly find this village so pleasing?
— It must be your lord's kind manners. My lord.
— Indeed. My laay.
— I beg your pardon, my lord...
— Let him speak.
— My lord, the old man you spoke of...
— Eadward de johnnes? He claims he's a magister. Do you know of him?
— He's our master, sir.
— All is well with him?
— He said he was alone.
— We were several days behind him. He does not know we are here.
— Who are you? Yes, you. The one whose head is touching the ceiling!
— Francois, my lord.
— A frenchman? Hold, please. Please. We are all gentlemen here.
— He's our interpreter, sir.
— Forgive them. I am at war with the French as well as the Scottish. Have I forgotten anyone? The spaniards? Am I at war with them? Arnaut has sent many spies into my midst.
— No, he's not a spy.
— No?
— He's our friend.
— I'm sure he is. He's too tall to be a spy anyway. Je suis un espion. Interpret.
— I'm a spy.
— My god, it's a miracle. A quiet frenchman!
— Be quiet, francois.
— "I am a spy."
— Louder, boy! Come on!
— I am a spy.
— I thought so.
