Falstaff's BIg Gamble

Falstaff's BIg Gamble: Part 1

PROLOGUE

Sir John Falstaff and his page, Poulet, thundered through the city gates a few minutes ahead of the angry husband and his relatives, and seconds before the gates were locked. A partial moon gave them enough light to pick out the woodland road they traveled.

A few miles from the city of Cintri in southern Gundarland, Falstaff called out, "Slow down, Poulet. My horse is tiring."

"Next time, steal a horse, not a bag of bones." Poulet, bundled up in a brown cloak, rode a fine pony.

"Now you're a connoisseur of horse thievery? Is there no end to your learning?" Falstaff knew his hairy-toed half-pint page was right; the horse was an old nag, but under the circumstances, it was the best he could find.

"How can you expect a horse like that to carry all your excess weight?" Poulet called over his shoulder.

"Don't start in on my weight. The women like me the way I am." The fifty-year-old Falstaff wore an expensive dark blue doublet and matching hose. Both garments, a few years old and fitted to a much lighter man, threatened to burst at the seams with a wrong move. A scabbard with a jeweled hilt adorned his left hip.

"I'm gettin' tired of hustlin' outta town because some husband wants to kill you."

"Wooing noble women is the fastest and surest way to get money. The sweet thing I entertained this evening gave me a purse of coins to help me get away from her cretin husband. Besides, 'twas time to move on. I'm too well known now to get anyone to invest in a new scheme."

"It's good you gotta heavy purse, but we can't spend the coins in the towns around here. You'll get hung if we go near any of 'em."

"'Tis not my fault these small towns have silly rules about card sharping and wooing married women. Let's rest until dawn." Falstaff dismounted and his horse whinnied in relief. "With first light, we'll head north to Dun Hythe. I haven't been there in a number of years. Perhaps we'll find new faces and new opportunities." He stretched his muscles, cramped from riding, and slapped Poulet on the shoulder. "I have an itch in my palm and it bodes well for us."

PART ONE

CHAPTER ONE

Hamlet, Crown Prince of Denmarko, paced the castle battlements late on a clear, cool spring night. He walked with hands clasped behind his back and head down. He had a thin nose with brown hair and eyes. His scrawny build and clean-shaven face gave him the appearance of a starving waif.

He paused, gazed at the multitudinous stars, sighed and continued his pacing. A breeze brought the smells of the harbor: salt water and rotting fish guts. At last, he stopped, thrust one hand to the sky and declaimed, "To bee or not to bee?" He stroked his chin. "Whether 'tis nobler to buy honey from the peasant farmer in the market and thus provide him sustenance and income to support his brood of brats, possibly keeping him from rebelling over high taxes . . . or to grow my own honey thus gaining coins to assert my independence from my noble family and the sordid court? Hmm."

He paced some more, still troubled by his vexing question. Nothing less than his future depended upon the answer. Because his uncle, and now stepfather, Clodio, had usurped his right to rule the kingdom, he needed a profession and an income.

"Do you always talk to yourself?" a voice said from the shadows.

"Who . . . who goes there?" Hamlet's head snapped from one side to another while his hand grasped the hilt of his dagger.

"'Tis I, the ghost of your father. I bring a message for your ears alone."

Hamlet goggled at the specter who materialized in the shadows of a doorway. "You're not my father's ghost. My father was a dwarf and you're the ghost of an elf. You're an impostor and a dead one to boot."