The Princess Bride (34 page)

“The dweam of wuv wapped wiffin the gweater dweam of everwasting west. Eternity is our fwiend, wemember that, and wuv wiw fowwow you fowever.”

It was 5:30 when the Prince stood up and approached the Archdean firmly. “Man and wife,” he shouted.”
Man and wife.
Say that!”

“I’m not there yet,” the Archdean answered.

“You just arrived,” the Prince replied. “Now!”

Buttercup could picture Westley rounding the final corner. There were four guards outside waiting. At ten seconds per guard, she began figuring, but then stopped, because numbers had always been her enemy. She looked down at her hands. Oh, I hope he still thinks I’m pretty, she thought; those nightmares took a lot out of me.

“Man and wife, you’re man and wife,” the Archdean said.

“Thank you, Holiness,” the Prince said, whirling toward Rugen. “Stop that commotion!” he commanded, and before his words were finished, the Count was running for the chapel door.

It was 5:31.

It took a full three minutes for the Count and the guards to reach the gate, and when they did, the Count could not believe it —he had seen Westley killed, and now there was Westley. And with a giant and a strangely scarred swarthy fellow. Something about the twin scars banked deep into his memory, but now was not the time for reminiscing. “Kill them,” he said to the fencers, “but leave the middle-sized one until I tell you” and the four guards drew their swords—

—but too late; too late and too slow, because as Fezzik moved in front of Westley, Inigo attacked, the great blade blinding, and the fourth guard was dead before the first one had had sufficient time to hit the floor.

Inigo stood still a moment, panting. Then he made a half turn in the direction of Count Rugen and executed a quick and well-formed bow. “Hello,” he said. “My name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare to die.”

And in reply, the Count did a genuinely remarkable and unexpected thing: he turned and ran. It was now 5:37.

King Lotharon and Queen Bella arrived at the wedding chapel in time to see Count Rugen leading the four guards in a charge down the corridor.

“Are we too early?” Queen Bella said, as they entered the wedding chapel and found Buttercup and Humperdinck and the Archdean.

“There is much going on,” the Prince said. “All, in due time, will come matchlessly clear. But I fear there is a strong possibility that, at this very moment, the Guilderians are attacking. I need time alone in the garden to formulate my battle plans, so could I prevail upon you two to personally escort Buttercup to my bedchamber?”

His request was, naturally, granted. The Prince hurried off then, and, after one stop to unlock a closet and remove several pairs of boots that had once belonged to Guilderian soldiers, he hurried outside.

Buttercup, for her part, walked very slowly and peacefully between the old King and Queen. There was no need ever to worry, not with Westley there to stop her wedding and take her away forever. The truth of her situation did not take genuine effect until she was halfway to Humperdinck’s room.

There was no Westley.

No sweet Westley. He had not seen fit to come for her.

She gave a terrible sigh. Not so much of sadness as of farewell. Once she got to Humperdinck’s room, it would all be done. He had a splendid collection of swords and cutlery.

She had never seriously contemplated suicide before. Oh, of course she’d thought about it; every girl does from time to time. But never seriously. To her quiet surprise, she found it was going to be the easiest thing in the world. She reached the Prince’s chamber, said good night to the Royal Family, and went directly to the wall display of weaponry. The time was then 5:46.

Inigo, at 5:37, was so startled at the Count’s cowardice that for a moment he simply stood there. Then he gave chase and, of course, he was faster, but the Count made it through a doorway, slammed and locked it, and Inigo was helpless to budge the thing. “Fezzik,” he called out desperately, “Fezzik, break it down.”

But Fezzik was with Westley. That was his job, to stay and protect Westley, and though they were still within view of Inigo, Fezzik could do nothing; Westley had already started to walk. Slowly. Weakly. But he was, under his own power, walking.

“Charge it,” Fezzik replied. “Slam your shoulder hard. It will give for you.”

Inigo charged the door. He slammed and slammed his shoulder, but he was thin, the door otherwise. “He’s getting away from me,” Inigo said.

“But Westley is helpless,” Fezzik reminded him.

“Fezzik I
need
you,” Inigo screamed.

“I’ll only be a minute,” Fezzik said, because there were some things you did, no matter what, and when a friend needed help, you helped him.

Westley nodded, kept on walking, still slowly, still weak, but still able to move.

“Hurry,” Inigo urged.

Fezzik hurried. He lumbered to the locked door, threw his bulk against it hard.

The door held.

“Please,” Inigo urged.

“I’ll get it, I’ll get it,” Fezzik promised, and he took a few steps back this time, then drove his shoulder against the wood.

The door gave some. A little. But not enough.

Fezzik backed away from it now. With a roar he charged across the corridor and when he was close he left the castle floor with both feet and the door splintered.

“Thank you, thank you,” Inigo said, already halfway through the broken door.

“What do I do now though?” Fezzik called.

“Back to Westley,” Inigo answered, in full flight now, beginning chasing through a series of rooms.

“Stupid,” Fezzik punished himself with, and he turned and rejoined Westley. Only Westley was no longer there. Fezzik could feel the panic starting inside him. There were half a dozen possible corridors. “Which which which?” Fezzik said, trying to figure it out, trying for once in his life to do something right. “You’ll pick the wrong one, knowing you,” he said out loud, and then he took a corridor and started hurrying along it as fast as he could.

He did pick the wrong one.

Westley was alone now.

Inigo was gaining. He could see, instant to instant, flashes of the fleeing noble in the next room, and when he reached that place, the Count would have made it into the room beyond. But each time, Inigo was gaining. By 5:40, he felt confident he would, after a chase of twenty-five years, be alone in a room with his revenge.

By 5:48, Buttercup felt quite sure she would be dead. It was still a minute before that as she stood staring at the Prince’s knives. The most lethal looked to be the one most used, the Florinese dagger. Pointed at one end, it entered easily, growing into a triangular shape by the hilt. For quicker bleeding, it was said. They were made in varying sizes, and the Prince’s looked to be one of the largest, being wrist thick where it joined the handle. She pulled it from the wall, put it to her heart.

“There are always too few perfect breasts in this world; leave yours alone,” she heard. And there was Westley on the bed. It was 5:48, and she knew that she would never die.

Westley, for his part, assumed he had till 6:15 for his hour to be up. That was, of course, when an hour was up, only he didn’t have an hour; only forty minutes. Till 5:55, actually. Seven minutes more. But, as has been said, he had no way of knowing that.

And Inigo had no way of knowing that Count Rugen had a Florinese dagger. Or that he was expert with the thing. It took Inigo until 5:41 before he actually cornered the Count. In a billiard room. “Hello,” he was about to say. “My name is Inigo Montoya; you killed my father; prepare to die.” What he actually got out was somewhat less: “Hello, my name is Ini—”

And then the dagger rearranged his insides. The force of the throw sent him staggering backward into the wall. The rush of blood weakened him so quickly he could not keep his feet. “Domingo, Domingo,” he whispered, and then he was, at forty-two minutes after five, lost on his knees. . . .

Buttercup was baffled by Westley’s behavior. She rushed to him, expecting to be met halfway in a wild embrace. Instead, he only smiled at her and remained where he was, lying on the Prince’s pillows, a sword beside his body.

Buttercup continued the journey alone and fell onto her very one and darling Westley.

“Gently,” he said.

“At a time like this that’s all you can think to say? ‘Gently’?”

“
Gently
,” Westley repeated, not so gently this time.

She got off him. “Are you angry at me for getting married?” she wondered.

“You are not married,” he said, softly. Strange his voice was. “Not in my church or any other.”

“But this old man did pronounce—”

“Widows happen. Every day—don’t they, Your Highness?” And now his voice was stronger as he addressed the Prince, who entered, muddy boots in hand.

Prince Humperdinck dove for his weapons, and a sword flashed in his thick hands. “To the death,” he said, advancing.

Westley gave a soft shake of his head. “No,” he corrected. “To the pain.”

It was an odd phrase, and for the moment it brought the Prince up short. Besides, why was the fellow just lying there? Where was the trap? “I don’t think I quite understand that.”

Westley lay without moving but he was smiling more deeply now. “I’ll be only too delighted to explain.” It was 5:50 now. Twenty-five minutes of safety left. (There were five. He did not know that. How could he know that?) Slowly, carefully, he began to talk. . . .

Inigo was talking too. It was still 5:42 when he whispered, “I’m . . . sorry . . . Father. . . .”

Count Rugen heard the words but nothing really connected until he saw the sword still held in Inigo’s hand. “You’re that little Spanish brat I taught a lesson to,” he said, coming closer now, examining the scars. “It’s simply incredible. Have you been chasing me all these years only to fail now? I think that’s the worst thing I ever heard of; how marvelous.”

Inigo could say nothing. The blood fauceted from his stomach.

Count Rugen drew his sword.

“. . . sorry, Father . . . I’m sorry. . . .”

‘I DON’T WANT YOUR “SORRY”! MY NAME IS DOMINGO MONTOYA AND I DIED FOR THAT SWORD AND YOU CAN KEEP YOUR “SORRY.” IF YOU WERE GOING TO FAIL, WHY DIDN’T YOU DIE YEARS AGO AND LET ME REST IN PEACE?’ And then MacPherson was after him too—”Spaniards! I never should have tried to teach a Spaniard; they’re dumb, they forget, what do you do with a wound? How many times did I teach you—
what do you do with a wound?
”

“Cover it . . .” Inigo said, and he pulled the knife from his body and stuffed his left fist into the bleeding.

Inigo’s eyes began to focus again, not well, not perfectly, but enough to see the Count’s blade as it approached his heart, and Inigo couldn’t do much with the attack, parry it vaguely, push the point of the blade into his left shoulder where it did no unendurable harm.

Count Rugen was a bit surprised that his point had been deflected, but there was nothing wrong with piercing a helpless man’s shoulder. There was no hurry when you had him.

MacPherson was screaming again—”Spaniards! Give me a Polack anytime; at least the Polacks remember to use the wall when they have one; only the Spaniards would forget to use a wall—”

Slowly, inch by inch, Inigo forced his body up the wall, using his legs just for pushing, letting the wall do all the supporting that was necessary.

Count Rugen struck again, but for any number of reasons, most probably because he hadn’t expected the other man’s movement, he missed the heart and had to be content with driving his blade through the Spaniard’s left arm.

Inigo didn’t mind. He didn’t even feel it. His right arm was where his interest lay, and he squeezed the handle and there was strength in his hand, enough to flick out at the enemy, and Count Rugen hadn’t expected that either, so he gave a little involuntary cry and took a step back to reassess the situation.

Power was flowing up from Inigo’s heart to his right shoulder and down from his shoulder to his fingers and then into the great six-fingered sword and he pushed off from the wall then, with a whispered, “. . . hello . . . my name is . . . Inigo Montoya; you killed . . . my father; prepare to die.”

And they crossed swords.

The Count went for the quick kill, the inverse Bonetti.

No chance.

“Hello . . . my name is Inigo Montoya; you killed my father . . . prepare to die. . . .”

Again they crossed, and the Count moved into a Morozzo defense, because the blood was still streaming.

Inigo shoved his fist deeper into himself. “Hello, my name is Inigo Montoya; you killed my father; prepare to die.”

The Count retreated around the billiard table.

Inigo slipped in his own blood.

The Count continued to retreat, waiting, waiting.

“Hello, my name is Inigo Montoya; you killed my father; prepare to die.” He dug with his fist and he didn’t want to think what he was touching and pushing and holding into place but for the first time he felt able to try a move, so the six-fingered sword flashed forward—

—and there was a cut down one side of Count Rugen’s cheek—

—another flash—

—another cut, parallel, bleeding—

“Hello, my name is Inigo Montoya; you killed my father; prepare to die.”

“Stop saying that!” The Count was beginning to experience a decline of nerve.

Inigo drove for the Count’s left shoulder, as the Count had wounded his. Then he went through the Count’s left arm, at the same spot the Count had penetrated his. “Hello.” Stronger now.

“Hello!
 
HELLO. MY NAME IS INIGO MONTOYA. YOU KILLED MY FATHER. PREPARE TO DIE!”

“No—”

“Offer me money—”

“Everything,” the Count said.

“Power too. Promise me that.”

“All I have and more. Please.”

“Offer me anything I ask for.”

“Yes. Yes. Say it.”

“I  WANT DOMINGO  MONTOYA,  YOU  SON  OF  A  BITCH,”  and  the six-fingered sword flashed again.

The Count screamed.

“That was just to the left of your heart.” Inigo struck again.

Another scream.

“That was below your heart. Can you guess what I’m doing?”