Rob Roy

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I deliver perfection...|and don't brag about it! :D

How long?

A day, maybe two.

They're gone, Rob, and the beasts sold.

There's a wee glen|on the other side of Ben Duh.

If I were tinkers|with a two-day start,

I'd lie there and kill me some meat.

We'd not get there before dark.

Not stood here, we won't.

You can smell them through the meat.

Aye, if they fought|as strong as they smelled,

we'd be in trouble.

They're there right enough,|just like you said, Rob.

We can rush them when they're asleep.

Nine. One of them's a woman.

Half of them would be dead|before they were awake.

How will we take them, Rob?

I'll talk to them in the morning.

I'm getting too old for this...|lying wet arsed in the heather,

chasing other men's cattle.

Come away|to the Americas with me.

They say there's fine acres|for the clearing in Virginia.

Aye, and they'll likely be|as hard as these to sleep on.

Why are you going in|to talk to them?

I know one of them.

Up!

Get up, you bunch of ragged-arsed|tinker cow thieves!

This is Robert Roy McGregor|come to reclaim the 32 beasts

stolen from His Lordship James Graham,

...Marquis of Montrose.

Tam Sibbald.

Still at your thieving.

Throw down now,|and I'll spare you, all but one.

There's a price to being|a leader of men, Tam.

By God, McGregor,|if there's any killing to be done,

you're the first.

Who do you think you are,|acting the great chief?

And I know you're a bigger thief|than any of us.

Aye, but if I had stolen|His Lordship's cattle,

you would not have|walked into my dreams so easy.

I can call the Gregorach|and kill the half of ya,

or it can be between us|and nothing more.

- Ha!|- Think on it, man.

Would you not rather|be dead after a good hump

And a belly full of stolen beef

or have me march you|back to Montrose

to sh*t yourself|on the gallows a month hence?

Throw down! Now!

And you have my word|no-one else will die!

Come, lads.

Any man with a blade in his hands,

cut him down.

Are ye men,

or what are ye?

He killed Tam,|and you stand and live!

And him as much an outlaw|as any of you!

No man among ya!|Your mothers curse you!

You're spittle!

You're leavings!

Listen to me well,|and remember this:

Or I'm going to remember you,|every last one.

When next you think to steal cattle,

have a care they're not|under my protection.

But if they are,|you're not stealing from their owners.

You're stealing from me,|Robert Roy McGregor.

No man who steals my beasts|makes a profit.

If you doubt me, ask Tam Sibbald.

What will you do with her?

Be on your way and tell no man|you fared ill at our hands.

Go on.

Cut him down!

Go on.

Yeah!

Ladies and gentlemen,|the winner of the contest is Guthrie!

Montrose, come hotfoot|from the court to the cockpit.

May I present Archibald Cunningham.

His Grace, the Duke of Argyll.

I am Your Grace's humble servant.

Another of your likely lads?

Archibald is sent me by his mother

in the hope that our climate|might cool the fever in his blood.

So, Mr Cunningham,

what are these principal sins|that distress your mother?

Dice? Drink?

Or are you a buggerer of boys?

It is years, Your Grace,|since I buggered a boy.

And in my own defence,|I thought him a girl

at the moment of entry.

What say you, Guthrie,

that Archie|could not tell arse from quim?

Many Englishmen|have that same difficulty.

Oh, spoken as well as you fought.

Did you see Guthrie here at work,|Mr Cunningham?

He has a fair hand with the cleaver.

You do not think much|of our highland tools, then?

If I had to kill an ox, a claymore|would be my first choice, Your Grace.

You best use a musket

and save the beast a slow dying.

I would not need|a musket for "you", Guthrie.

Oh, splendid!

I'll wager 100 of what you like

on Guthrie and his cleaver.

At odds?

Now, come, James,|you're a fox. What odds?

- Three?|- Two.

English pounds.

There's more of a jingle to guineas.

- Ah, guineas it is.|- Excellent, excellent.

A bumper of rhenish|for my Lord Montrose

And show Mr Cunningham|what blades we have.

You honour me, sir,|to serve me with your own hand.

I tell you, James,

I forget how much you dislike me|until I'm in your presence.

So, what news at Court?

What else but the succession?

Our poor Queen cannot find|the time to die in peace.

I fear she may pass over|and leave the matter unresolved.

Would that she had seen a child live|to comfort the kingdom.

One might have hoped that|a field so often ploughed

Might have yielded one good crop.

In truth, I have seen|healthier graveyards

Than that woman's womb.

Come on!

I am asked on what side|Your Grace will declare himself.

Where Argyll goes,|the path must be firm and broad.

And now all watch|to see which way to jump.

One cannot go to the closet

but what some adherent to James|is praising your pish.

I confess to a certain|weariness in this whole issue

and look to Your Grace|to give some lead.

All I could answer in honesty

was that it would be the one|most inclined to his own benefit.

Damn it, man. You talk too much.

Can you not tend to your wager?

Argyll, my wager is well won.

Damn it, Guthrie!

Is it not enough that you're beaten|but you must turn backstabber?

My factor will call upon|Your Grace's factor.

Welcome back.

Well done, Rob, man.

Cut out another of the cattle.

If the tinkers ate one,|they could have eaten two.

Montrose will charge you, nonetheless.

I'm weary of seeing|children hungry and old folk cold.

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