The Princess Bride

The Prince whirled on her. “I’m not marrying any bald princess, and that’s that!”

“No one would know,” Queen Bella explained. “She has hats even for sleeping.”

“I would know,” cried the Prince. “Did you see the candlelight reflecting off her skull?”

“But things would have been so good with Guilder,” the Queen said, addressing herself half to the Prince, half to Count Rugen, who now joined them.

“Forget about Guilder. I’ll conquer it sometime. I’ve been wanting to ever since I was a kid anyway.” He approached the Queen. “People snicker behind your back when you’ve got a bald wife, and I can do without that, thank you. You’ll just have to find someone else.”

“Who?”

“Find me somebody, she should just look nice, that’s all.”

“That Noreena has no hair,” King Lotharon said, puffing up to the others. “Nor-umble mumble humble.”

“Thank you for pointing that out, dear,” said Queen Bella.

“I don’t think Humperdinck will like that,” said the King. “Dumble Humble Mumble.”

Then Count Rugen stepped forward. “You want someone who looks nice; but what if she’s a commoner?”

“The commoner the better,” Prince Humperdinck replied, pacing again.

“What if she can’t hunt?” the Count went on.

“I don’t care if she can’t spell,” the Prince said. Suddenly he stopped and faced them all. “I’ll tell you what I want,” he began then. “I want someone who is so beautiful that when you see her you say, ‘Wow, that Humperdinck must be some kind of fella to have a wife like that.’ Search the country, search the world, just find her!”

Count Rugen could only smile. “She is already found,” he said.

It was dawn when the two horsemen reined in at the hilltop. Count Rugen rode a splendid black horse, large, perfect, powerful. The Prince rode one of his whites. It made Rugen’s mount seem like a plow puller.

“She delivers milk in the mornings,” Count Rugen said.

“And she is truly-without-question-no-possibility-of-error beautiful?”

“She was something of a mess when I saw her,” the Count admitted. “But the potential was overwhelming.”

“A milkmaid.” The Prince ran the words across his rough tongue. “I don’t know that I could wed one of them even under the best of conditions. People might snicker that she was the best I could do.”

“True,” the Count admitted. “If you prefer, we can ride back to Florin City without waiting.”

“We’ve come this far,” the Prince said. “We might as well wai—” His voice quite simply died. “I’ll take her,” he managed, finally, as Buttercup rode slowly by below them.

“No one will snicker, I think,” the Count said.

“I must court her now,” said the Prince. “Leave us alone for a minute.” He rode the white expertly down the hill.

Buttercup had never seen such a giant beast. Or such a rider.

“I am your Prince and you will marry me,” Humperdinck said.

Buttercup whispered, “I am your servant and I refuse.”

“I am your Prince and you cannot refuse.”

“I am your loyal servant and I just did.”

“Refusal means death.”

“Kill me then.”

“I am your Prince and I’m not that bad—how could you rather be dead than married to me?”

“Because,” Buttercup said, “marriage involves love, and that is not a pastime at which I excel. I tried once, and it went badly, and I am sworn never to love another.”