Drawing his stool close by the Prince, Kris turned his ear to Falstaff’s tale, starting to smirk. “His count of men does keep growing by leaps and bounds,” he whispered to Harry, gesturing for his cup to be refilled. “Does he ever tell truth?”
Hal had called again for Francis, coming to rush by shouting ‘Anon, anon, my lord!’ which had caused for the prince to laugh along with Falstaff’s tale. Francis had poured the wine just so that it had barely spilled over. Falstaff and his tongue of lead had spoken at a soft voice, sure to crescendo at the most alarming of scenes. Poins had come to point him out sometimes, laughing along with the others that still roared.
“Oh yes, they come to laugh at the farce tales we put off, the flustered expressions of the men—most notably Bardolph, he was red faced ever since he was caught in the act!” He replied with a mischievous grin. “His tales are always most false; the cuts in his sword, the holes in his tattered clothes..the marks of dirt on their faces from the falls they took..!”
“A bit cruel, to always make mock of him so, but he does seem to invite it.” Kris tossed back his third cup of ale, trying to decide if he was drinking too much. Did a male body have different tolerances than a female one? His taste buds seemed different, anyway; the ale was really good.
“Francis!”