The Princess Bride

An Illustrated Edition of S. Morgenstern's Classic Tale of True Love and High Adventure

William Goldman, Michael Manomivibul

• Publisher: Harper Perennial
• Year: 2013
• Print ISBN: 9780544173767
• eBook ISBN: 9780544177222
• Topic: Literature
• Subtopic: Classics
• Index: Literature

Here William Goldman’s beloved story of Buttercup, Westley, and their fellow adventurers finally receives a beautiful illustrated treatment.

A tale of true love and high adventure, pirates, princesses, giants, miracles, fencing, and a frightening assortment of wild beasts—The Princess Bride is a modern storytelling classic.

As Florin and Guilder teeter on the verge of war, the reluctant Princess Buttercup is devastated by the loss of her true love, kidnapped by a mercenary and his henchman, rescued by a pirate, forced to marry Prince Humperdinck, and rescued once again by the very crew who absconded with her in the first place. In the course of this dazzling adventure, she'll meet Vizzini—the criminal philosopher who'll do anything for a bag of gold; Fezzik—the gentle giant; Inigo—the Spaniard whose steel thirsts for revenge; and Count Rugen—the evil mastermind behind it all. Foiling all their plans and jumping into their stories is Westley, Princess Buttercup’s one true love and a very good friend of a very dangerous pirate.

FIVE

The Announcement

THE GREAT SQUARE of Florin City was filled as never before, awaiting the introduction of Prince Humperdinck’s bride-to-be, Princess Buttercup of Hammersmith. The crowd had begun forming some forty hours earlier, but up to twenty-four hours before, there were still fewer than one thousand. But then, as the moment of introduction grew nearer, from across the country the people came. None had ever seen the Princess, but rumors of her beauty were continual and each was less possible than the one before.

At noontime, Prince Humperdinck appeared at the balcony of his father’s castle and raised his arms. The crowd, which by now was at the danger size, slowly quieted. There were stories that the King was dying, that he was already dead, that he had been dead long since, that he was fine.

“My people, my beloveds, from whom we draw our strength, today is a day of greeting. As you must have heard, my honored father’s health is not what it once was. He is, of course, ninety-seven, so who can ask more. As you also know, Florin needs a male heir.”

The crowd began to stir now—it was to be this lady they had heard so much about.

“In three months, our country celebrates its five hundredth anniversary. To celebrate that celebration, I shall, on that sundown, take for my wife the Princess Buttercup of Hammersmith. You do not know her yet. But you will meet her now,” and he made a sweeping gesture and the balcony doors swung open and Buttercup moved out beside him on the balcony.

And the crowd, quite literally, gasped.

The twenty-one-year-old Princess far surpassed the eighteen-year-old mourner. Her figure faults were gone, the too bony elbow having fleshed out nicely; the opposite pudgy wrist could not have been trimmer. Her hair, which was once the color of autumn, was still the color of autumn, except that before, she had tended it herself, whereas now she had five full-time hairdressers who managed things for her. (This was long after hairdressers; in truth, ever since there have been women, there have been hairdressers, Adam being the first, though the King James scholars do their very best to muddy this point.) Her skin was still wintry cream, but now, with two handmaidens assigned to each appendage and four for the rest of her, it actually, in certain lights, seemed to provide her with a gentle, continually moving as she moved, glow.

Prince Humperdinck took her hand and held it high and the crowd cheered. “That’s enough, mustn’t risk overexposure,” the Prince said, and he started back in toward the castle.

“They have waited, some of them, so long,” Buttercup answered. “I would like to walk among them.”

“We do not walk among commoners unless it is unavoidable,” the Prince said.

“I have known more than a few commoners in my time,” Buttercup told him. “They will not, I think, harm me.”

And with that she left the balcony, reappeared a moment later on the great steps of the castle and, quite alone, walked open-armed down into the crowd.

Wherever she went, the people parted. She crossed and recrossed the Great Square and always, ahead of her, the people swept apart to let her pass. Buttercup continued, moving slowly and smiling, alone, like some land messiah.

Most of the people there would never forget that day. None of them, of course, had ever been so close to perfection, and the great majority adored her instantly. There were, to be sure, some who, while admitting she was pleasing enough, were withholding judgment as to her quality as a queen. And, of course, there were some more who were frankly jealous. Very few of them hated her.

And only three of them were planning to murder her.

Buttercup, naturally, knew none of this. She was smiling, and when people wanted to touch her gown, well, let them, and when they wanted to brush their skin against hers, well, let them do that too. She had studied hard to do things royally, and she wanted very much to succeed, so she kept her posture erect and her smile gentle, and that her death was so close would have only made her laugh, if someone had told her.

But—

—in the farthest corner of the Great Square—

—in the highest building in the land—

—deep in the deepest shadow—

—the man in black stood waiting.

His boots were black and leather. His pants were black and his shirt. His mask was black, blacker than raven. But blackest of all were his flashing eyes.

Flashing and cruel and deadly . . .

BUTTERCUP WAS MORE than a little weary after her triumph. The touching of the crowds had exhausted her, so she rested a bit, and then, toward midafternoon, she changed into her riding clothes and went to fetch Horse. This was the one aspect of her life that had not changed in the years preceding. She still loved to ride, and every afternoon, weather permitting or not, she rode alone for several hours in the wild land beyond the castle.

She did her best thinking then.

Not that her best thinking ever expanded horizons. Still, she told herself, she was not a dummy either, so as long as she kept her thoughts to herself, well, where was the harm?

As she rode through woods and streams and heather, her brain was awhirl. The walk through the crowds had moved her, and in a way most strange. For even though she had done nothing for three years now but train to be a princess and a queen, today was the first day she actually understood that it was all soon to be a reality.

And I just don’t like Humperdinck, she thought. It’s not that I hate him or anything. I just never see him; he’s always off someplace or playing in the Zoo of Death.

To Buttercup’s way of thinking, there were two main problems: (1) was it wrong to marry without like, and (2) if it was, was it too late to do anything about it.

The answers, to her way of thinking, as she rode along, were: (1) no and (2) yes.

It wasn’t wrong to marry someone you didn’t like, it just wasn’t right either. If the whole world did it, that wouldn’t be so great, what with everybody kind of grunting at everybody else as the years went by. But, of course, not everybody did it; so forget about that. The answer to (2) was even easier: she had given her word she would marry; that would have to be enough. True, he had told her quite honestly that if she said “no” he would have to have her disposed of, in order to keep respect for the Crown at its proper level; still, she could have, had she so chosen, said “no.”

Everyone had told her, since she became a princess-in-training, that she was very likely the most beautiful woman in the world. Now she was going to be the richest and most powerful as well.

Don’t expect too much from life, Buttercup told herself as she rode along. Learn to be satisfied with what you have.

DUSK WAS CLOSING in when Buttercup crested the hill. She was perhaps half an hour from the castle, and her daily ride was three-quarters done. Suddenly she reined Horse, for standing in the dimness beyond was the strangest trio she had ever seen.

The man in front was dark, Sicilian perhaps, with the gentlest face, almost angelic. He had one leg too short, and the makings of a humpback, but he moved forward toward her with surprising speed and nimbleness. The other two remained rooted. The second, also dark, probably Spanish, was as erect and slender as the blade of steel that was attached to his side. The third man, mustachioed, perhaps a Turk, was easily the biggest human being she had ever seen.

“A word?” the Sicilian said, raising his arms. His smile was more angelic than his face.

Buttercup halted. “Speak.”

“We are but poor circus performers,” the Sicilian explained. “It is dark and we are lost. We were told there was a village nearby that might enjoy our skills.”

“You were misinformed,” Buttercup told him. “There is no one, not for many miles.”

“Then there will be no one to hear you scream,” the Sicilian said, and he jumped with frightening agility toward her face.

That was all that Buttercup remembered. Perhaps she did scream, but if she did it was more from terror than anything else, because certainly there was no pain. His hands expertly touched places on her neck, and unconsciousness came.

She awoke to the lapping of water.

She was wrapped in a blanket and the giant Turk was putting her in the bottom of a boat. For a moment she was about to talk, but then when they began talking, she thought it better to listen. And after she had listened for a moment, it got harder and harder to hear. Because of the terrible pounding of her heart.

“I think you should kill her now,” the Turk said.

“The less you think, the happier I’ll be,” the Sicilian answered.

There was the sound of ripping cloth.

“What is that?” the Spaniard asked.

“The same as I attached to her saddle,” the Sicilian replied. “Fabric from the uniform of an officer of Guilder.”

“I still think—” the Turk began.

“She must be found dead on the Guilder frontier or we will not be paid the remainder of our fee. Is that clear enough for you?”

“I just feel better when I know what’s going on, that’s all,” the Turk mumbled. “People are always thinking I’m so stupid because I’m big and strong and sometimes drool a little when I get excited.”

“The reason people think you’re so stupid,” the Sicilian said, “is because you are so stupid. It has nothing to do with your drooling.”

There came the sound of a flapping of sail. “Watch your heads,” the Spaniard cautioned, and then the boat was moving. “The people of Florin will not take her death well, I shouldn’t think. She has become beloved.”

“There will be war,” the Sicilian agreed. “We have been paid to start it. It’s a fine line of work to be expert in. If we do this perfectly, there will be a continual demand for our services.”

“Well I don’t like it all that much,” the Spaniard said. “Frankly, I wish you had refused.”

“The offer was too high.”

“I don’t like killing a girl,” the Spaniard said.

“God does it all the time; if it doesn’t bother Him, don’t let it worry you.”

Through all this, Buttercup had not moved.

The Spaniard said, “Let’s just tell her we’re taking her away for ransom.”

The Turk agreed. “She’s so beautiful and she’d go all crazy if she knew.”

“She knows already,” the Sicilian said. “She’s been awake for every word of this.”

Buttercup lay under the blanket, not moving. How could he have known that, she wondered.

“How can you be sure?” the Spaniard asked.

“The Sicilian senses all,” the Sicilian said.

Conceited, Buttercup thought.

“Yes, very conceited,” the Sicilian said.

He must be a mind reader, Buttercup thought.

“Are you giving it full sail?” the Sicilian said.

“As much as is safe,” the Spaniard answered from the tiller.

“We have an hour on them, so no risks yet. It will take her horse perhaps twenty-seven minutes to reach the castle, a few minutes more for them to figure out what happened and, since we left an obvious trail, they should be after us within an hour. We should reach the Cliffs in fifteen minutes more and, with any luck at all, the Guilder frontier at dawn, when she dies. Her body should be quite warm when the Prince reaches her mutilated form. I only wish we could stay for his grief—it should be Homeric.”

Why does he let me know his plans, Buttercup wondered.

“You are going back to sleep now, my lady,” the Spaniard said, and his fingers suddenly were touching her temple, her shoulder, her neck, and she ...

Table of contents

• Title Page
• Contents
• Copyright
• Frontispiece
• Introduction to the 30th Anniversary Edition
• Introduction to the 25th Anniversary Edition
• Map
• The Princess Bride
• The Bride
• The Groom
• The Courtship
• The Preparations
• The Announcement
• The Festivities
• The Wedding
• Honeymoon
• Buttercup’s Baby: An Explanation
• Buttercup’s Baby
• One: Fezzik Dies
• Reading Group Guide
• About the Author
• Connect with HMH
• Footnotes