Michel And Henry Go To War (The French Bastard Book 1)

by Avan Judd Stallard

  Ernie let out the deep sigh of a man willing to be convinced.

  “I heard you Ozzies like a beer, Ernie. No?” said Michel.

  “Come on, Ernie. More the merrier.”

  “Ahhh … hell with it. What’s the worst they can do, shoot me?”

  “Well, yes,” conceded Michel.

  “That a fella, Ernie,” cheered Henry.

  “Wouldn’t want us diggers to get a bad reputation for turning down a grog. Right, who said he was buying?”

  Ernie hefted his considerable frame from the vehicle. “Stay, Mary,” he called to the lorry partially parked on the road.

  In front of them was the Maison des Cartes, a long stone tavern with narrow windows. It looked more barn than pub. The three jostled their way through the entrance and spilled into the chilled hall, blinking and ogling, knocking into something, then someone—“Sorry mate”—as their eyes strained to adjust. The gentle illumination made the space seem smaller than it was, lending the hall a cozy, almost romantic feel.

  Uniformed men were hunkered over old wine barrels, downing beer with the sort of gusto that suggested they might never drink again, surely true for some. Five or six tables filled the rest of the space, and it was around these that the most raucous hoots and hollers rang out. Naturally, it was where the women were, only a handful, but enough to turn the soldiers into hot-headed idiots jesting and joking and puffing their chests out, all in competition for fluff that most the men did not really expect they could win. All except Michel, that is.

  He strode confidently through the mob, casting a casual glance left then right. One table in particular drew his attention. He noticed a woman, moderately plump with a big bust. Her complexion was as pure as milk, though a blush of red graced her cheeks. Beside her sat a little red-head with a narrow waist and fine long legs, and a glint of something in her eyes.

  Michel made for the long bar made from dark red cedar. “Bonjour, monsieur,” Michel said to the old publican, and continued in French. “I like your tavern a great deal.”

  “Thank you,” replied the old man, nodding.

  “Two ales, please.”

  Michel turned and slapped his friend’s back. “And you, Henry—a goat’s milk for you?”

  Henry gave his best version of a withering look.

  “Better make that three ales, I think.”

  A few pulls of the pump later and three ales were placed before the men.

  “Well, comrades,” said Michel, lifting his glass, “here’s to dead Germans and French beer.”

  “Too right,” muttered Ernie, before his entire beer disappeared in one languorous gulp while the clink from Henry and Michel’s toast hung in the air.

  Ernie belched then said, “Come on, fellas, how is it fair that you’ve both got full beers, and I’m empty? I thought you were buying, Mick.”

  Michel peeled two francs from a roll of bills and placed them on the bar. “Monsieur, make sure this man’s glass is never empty.”

  “Too bloody right,” said Ernie. “In for a penny, in for a pound.”

  And so Ernie took to his drinking with gusto, and Henry too, not quite pegging the bigger man, but certainly holding his own given one of them weighed sixteen stone, the other just over ten. Michel came a sorry third in the drinking stakes, his attention divided.

  As the ales disappeared, it only took the slightest prompting from Michel to launch Henry into an exhaustive and first-rate telling of their recent adventure. With cliffs one hundred feet high, Germans numbering in the dozens, explosions shaking the very foundations of Rinay and old Major-General Fitz cowering in the immensity of their presence, it was a rollicking good yarn.

  Sometime later, Ernie, who had gone out especially hard, was starting to look worse for wear. One eye focused on his half-full beer while the other independently scanned the room. Michel, however, was just getting warmed up. Propped with his back against the bar, he leaned over to Henry and, slurring only slightly, asked, “So, you like?” as he jabbed a not-so-gentle elbow into Henry’s midriff, eyes pointing like a blood-hound to the blonde with the milky complexion.

  Henry turned and looked.

  “See that one, Henry?”

  “Oh yes, very nice. Nice nice nice,” drawled Henry, before craning his neck and letting out a muffled howl.

  Michel smiled the way a fox smiles before raiding a chicken coop. He leaned in toward Henry, his eyes darting in conspiracy. As soberly as he could, Michel said: “Henry, in all seriousness, how much do you want to make love to this woman?”

  “How long is a piece of string?” Henry replied, then added, “And I’d do the string, too.”

  “There is a way to measure, you know. A test.”

  “Huh?”

  “Yes, a test. For how bad you want to bed a woman.”

  “Go on,” Henry said eagerly.

  “I call it the Belle Proposition. Madame Belle—she is one of the most beautiful women in France. Stunning. Divine. A Goddess.”

  “Then yes, I’d do it, I’d give her one for the king,” said Henry.

  “No no no, that is not the test. The test, Henry,” said Michel, almost whispering, taking Henry into his confidence, “the proposition, if you will, is this. Is your lust so great that you would subject yourself to the worst sort of tribulations just so you could feel that hot wet pussy?”

  “What sort of triber … triber … What do you mean?” sputtered Henry, sensing something devious.

  “Ah, yes, that is the question,” said Michel, taking a swig of his beer, before leaning in close. “Would you, Henry, be willing to let Madame Belle straddle that hairless chest of yours, perched just above you, naked as Eve herself, gazing longingly into your eyes,” he lyricized, while Henry’s head nodded in anticipation of the naked Madame Belle, whomever she was, “as she deposited a generous lady turd on your chest?”

  “What!?” said Henry. He shook his head as if the thought was mere water to be cast off. “That’s sick. Who lets someone shit on their chest?”

  Michel, regaining his perch, his back against the bar, casually tarried: “It’s not me who is shitting on your chest, Henry. It is Madame Belle.”

  “No. There is no way. Not Mrs Bloody Bell or her daughter or niece or second-cousin twice-removed is shitting on this chest,” said Henry, thumping himself like a proud gorilla.

  “Well, Henry, you would say that, seeing as Madame Belle is not here. But Miss Buxom is,” Michel said and winked. “So I shall put the proposition: do you want to screw Miss Buxom bad enough that you would let her dump her dinner on your chest?”

  “No,” replied Henry stoutly, arms folded.

  “Come, Henry. Think. Those ample milky teats in your mouth, her cleavage smothering your face. Those big, juicy thighs wrapped around your waist. That smell of a woman, a woman who wants a man. Who wants you. Oh yes, you can almost feel it, can’t you? The curve of her ass in your hand. The touch of your fingers to the warm wetness between her legs. And then she lets you push inside her with every inch of your manhood. All you have to do is permit the tiniest little indiscretion.”

  Henry’s jaw was a little slack. His eyes stayed locked on the woman in question as the delicious fantasy of Michel’s words worked their magic.

  “So, tell me, one little indiscretion isn’t worth all that? You can smell it, can’t you?”

  Henry involuntary sniffed the air.

  “So, what is it? Yes, or no?”

  “All right, yes. Yes!” Henry blurted, licking his lips.

  “Yes, what?”

  “Yes, I’d let the pretty little thing shit on my chest!”

  Having extracted his confession, Michel downed the rest of his beer, straightened himself, then said with considerable pomp: “You filthy little man. You disgust me.” And off he strode.

  “But, but …” began Henry, but Michel was already gone. Henry turned to his beer and to Ernie, who, sitting silently and looking in three different directions all at once, was the only thing in al
l of war-torn France that seemed to make perfect sense.

  6

  There was one small space at the table and it was the farthest away from the svelte red-head and her blonde companion. It was a way in, though, the only problem being there was not a spare seat in the whole tavern.

  Michel glanced around until he spotted a man in the act of getting up. The soldier set off, staggering toward the bar, at which point Michel swiftly pilfered his chair. The other soldiers around the table made to object, but Michel slapped a franc down on the table, and not another word was said.

  Michel now positioned the chair at the ladies’ table and sat down. A smaller and less confident type might have been told to take a hike there and then, but there was a look to Michel, a confidence and a strength, that made even the keenest brawlers take stock. A half-dozen annoyed Canadians sent cross-eyed glances his way, while from the other end of the table there might have been a sly smile from the red-head, though it could have been she was just amused with the attention.

  Michel had considered his situation as carefully as a man with a belly of beer could consider anything. He knew Henry would be useless with the girls, but he wanted to help his friend. He had to contrive a situation where he could rustle the fillies away from the protective herd of young stallions. Then Henry would at least have a chance—one he would no doubt make a shambles of, but sometimes the pursuit alone was almost as good as the desired result.

  Michel needed to be next to the girls. To be close enough that he could whisper and joke and cajole, then he would casually touch an arm or a leg of the red-head, and once he had her confidence he would have the envy of the blonde and she would be so much the riper for picking—even if the picker was an inept Englishman liable to lose his nerve when it counted. But at a table of feisty soldiers, getting close to the girls would be some mean feat. Michel had an idea, though.

  “Gentlemen, ladies,” Michel began, yelling above the chatter, “I would like to buy you all a drink.”

  With the eyes of the curious mob drilling into him, Michel turned to the chap nearest him, a man whose ugliness was considerable, certainly enough to ensure he had no realistic designs on the women.

  “Monsieur,” Michel said, addressing the man and extending a hand, “my name is Michel.”

  “Charlie,” reciprocated the Canadian as he met Michel’s grip, “but everyone calls me Chuck.”

  “Chuck, it is good to meet you. Now, if I may, as you are here fighting my war, for which my countrymen and I thank you more than mere words can express, here is one franc. If you would be so kind, a beer for you and your friends, and something for the ladies, whatever they are drinking.”

  Michel was not about to play fetch for the rest of the table—hardly a good look in front of the ladies—but, as expected, Chuck jumped at the opportunity.

  “Absolutely. Thanks Mich,” replied Chuck, and in an instant he had jostled his way to the bar.

  Try as they might, the rest of the men at the table could not quite manage to ignore the conspicuous presence of the Frenchman in their midst. Michel sat there, not saying a word. He swung casually back on two legs of his pilfered chair, projecting the air of a man supremely confident in his right to be anywhere, doing anything. Soon the hoots and hollers died down, and then the chatter, too, till there was little more than awkward mumbling among the group. The tension at the table was palpable.

  The man who seemed to find Michel’s presence most offensive was the soldier with slicked-back hair seated next to the red-head. He was a good-looking fellow, though perhaps a bit too coiffed to project the sort of raw sexual energy that radiated from Michel’s end of the table. The Canadian’s jokes dried up, and his easy-going manner hardened with his posture.

  The stalemate broke with the clumsy arrival of Chuck. He put four beers down on the table, and the publican’s wife followed with another three, plus two gin and tonics for the ladies.

  “There we go fellas,” Chuck said to the table, forgetting the women in his lust for the drink. He then turned to Michel and added: “And thanks, Mich.” He raised his glass and declared, “To France! Cheers.”

  Michel reciprocated with a hearty, “Cheers,” while the rest of the soldiers muttered a mixture of salutations and profanities under their breaths, “Fuck France” among them.

  For the slick Canadian up the other end of the table, the audacity of it all was too much to bear any longer. The buying of a round to impress the girls. The imperious way the French cocksucker just sat there, like king. And now the warm welcome given him by Chuck, happy-ugly-always-fucking-drunk-Chuck. He broke his smoldering silence.

  “So, Michael, or whatever your name is, haven’t you got any of your own friends?”

  Leaning into the table, Michel looked at his interrogator squarely. “It is Michel, actually, but it is hard for some people to say. Michael or Mick or Mich, as Chuck here says, whatever you prefer is fine. And yours—what is your name?”

  “Harp.”

  “Well, Harp, it is good to meet you. I’m here with my friends at the bar,” Michel said, gesturing to the two figures hunkered over beers. Henry shot a well-timed glance Michel’s way.

  “But my friends, they do not like cards. The truth is, I came over to see if you gentlemen—and you too, ladies—might be interested in a game. Poker, perhaps. Or blackjack?”

  A few of the boys’ heads now perked up, Leo and Riggs especially, as Michel retrieved a surprisingly crisp pack from his pocket. “So, what do you say,” he said, placing the cards on the table, “anyone interested?”

  Before anyone could reply, Chuck—good, affable, pissed-as-a-newt Chuck—had whisked Michel’s cards from the table and had them inches from his mug.

  “Mother of mercy,” Chuck hollered, “get a load of these!”

  He proceeded to pass cards along the table after he had given each one a good eyeballing. Every card he looked at was greeted with a hoot of joy that echoed down the table. With the soldiers abuzz, Michel now played the fool.

  “Ahh, yes, I had forgotten about that. You will pardon me, ladies, if I have offended you. I’m afraid the only decent pack I could get my hands on was this. They are perfectly good playing cards, but, well, a little risqué.”

  The cards now littered the table, the best of them feverishly passed between the salivating men. The pictures on the front varied, but each had in common the fact they featured a beautiful woman scantily clad in lingerie. The four jokers went so far as to show unclad breasts and nipples. It was erotica, but of a typically artful French kind.

  While the boys were lapping it up—woman-hungry, all of them—their female companions had taken an interest, too. The red-head furtively giggled, her face flushing with a softer red than her hair. The more cards she looked at—casually, without seeming too eager—the more she fidgeted in her seat, her legs crossing and uncrossing.

  Michel sat back, as if utterly disinterested in either the provocative cards or the excitement they caused. He was playing the magnanimous gentleman, even though it was he who had brought this hot, sexy, delicious filth to the table.

  As the commotion began to die down it was Chuck who put in muddled words what all his buddies were thinking. “Mich, buddy, these are … these are … I like these cards a lot. I gotta have ’em, eh. How much? You just name the price.”

  “Well, Chuck, if you like the cards so much I’d be happy to give them to you for nothing. Except,” added Michel, and Chuck’s massive grin deflated, “then I would have no cards. But I’ll make you a deal. It was a game of cards I was looking for when I came to your table, so what say we play a round of blackjack? If you win, you get to keep the cards.”

  In an instant Chuck’s infectious grin returned to his face.

  “But if I win, then for the rest of the evening I get to take a seat next to the beautiful lady, whose name, I’m sorry to say, mademoiselle, I do not know …”

  “It’s Catherine,” offered the red-head in an endearing lilt.

  �
�Catherine … a beautiful name. So, Chuck,” Michel said, turning, “if you win a simple hand of cards, then they are yours. But if I win, our friend Harp offers up his seat next to the beautiful Catherine. Is it a deal?”

  Before the words of eager agreement could tumble from Chuck’s mouth, Harp exclaimed his unequivocal rejection: “Whoa, Frenchy. I don’t know who you think you are, but there’s no way in high hell I’m giving you this seat.”

  But Harp had been backed into a corner. Right then, he looked like a self-absorbed pretty-boy to his friends, none of whom had much luck with the ladies—least of all Chuck—whereas each of them could relish the exquisite images on those cards for as long as they were stuck in the miserable French war that was nothing like the adventure they had signed up for.

  “Hey, Harp, come on.”

  “Harp …”

  “Are you kidding?”

  “Harp!”

  “If you don’t …”

  “Ahh, fine, fine, damn it,” said Harp. “Just make sure you give him a lickin’.”

  And with that, Harp was one of the fella’s again. Yet he had been made to look a fool in front of the ladies, whom he had spent the better part of two hours buttering up. Michel could barely suppress a crafty smile. Yet being the cocksure fellow he was, he was not done.

  “Good for you, Harp, it is a most generous gesture. But the odds of me winning … well, they are not good. And, no doubt you would agree, this is a very fine pack of cards,” Michel said, the table—minus one—nodding their agreement.

  “So then, gentlemen, what do you say: is it too much to ask that for the duration of the game—which will be over in a heartbeat, I fear—I get to swap seats with Harp?”

  “You bet.”

  “Sure thing.”

  “That sounds fair enough.”

  And Harp was right back in that corner. He casually nodded his agreement. “That’s fine by me, Michel,” he said, pronouncing the name correctly but spitting it out like a swear word, “with just one condition. I’m the one who plays the round of cards against you, and I choose what game we play.”