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 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.”