Free Reign of Madness by Lynn Cullen

the Spains a bride was bedded with her husband after the wedding, but she was not expected to crow at her deflowering like a whore. Tears pricked at my eyes.
    He sat down on the edge of the bed. “I am sorry. It appears you did not expect this.”
    A merrymaker outside blasted on his trumpet. My husband turned his head and shouted, “Would you shut up!”
    I drew a breath. I could bear this. I could bear anything. “You must tell me when to shout, Monseigneur.”
    “When to shout?” He crossed his arms and puffed out his lips, accentuating their natural poutiness. “Should that not be obvious?”
    I breathed a miserable sigh. A lump of salt swelled in my throat.
    He studied my face. “I am sorry. It is not my purpose to dismay you, especially at the hands of my men.”
    “I shall be fine, Monseigneur.”
    “No. No!” He hit the bed with his fist, making me flinch. “I shall not let them tell me what I am to do with my wife. I am their lord, I can do whatever I want. They are not the ruler of me.” He gestured at the tear under my eye, indicating that I should wipe it. “Do not worry. I think we might outfox them.”

    His men came, as promised, bearing a silver bowl of caudle, smoking torches, and fortifying bread. We received them in our bed, me up to my chin under the counterpane, he sitting up, uncovered to the waist. He grinned as they slapped his back and complimented his manhood while he drank from the steaming bowl. After he drank his share, he lifted my head so I might sip. The hot spicy wine still warmed my belly as they left.
    The door shut. My husband sank under the covers to his chin. “Well done, chérie . That was a good and hearty shout, I must say. How did you know how to hoist such a yowl?”
    “There are cats in the Spains, Monseigneur, as well as here.”
    He glanced at me as if considering me anew, then broke into a laugh.
    The glow of pride I felt for amusing him dimmed quickly. For while we had tricked his men by having me cry out at his count of three, he had not tried to bed me. Did he find me so undesirable? Was his urgency to wed me just a show to impress his men?
    “What troubles you?” he asked.
    “I am not troubled, Monseigneur.”
    “Something does trouble you—you are as readable as a child’s book of beasts. Come now, you must always speak your mind to me. I shall do the same for you.”
    I paused. “Do I not please you?”
    He turned onto his side to look at me. “Please me?” He took my chin in his hand. I could smell his scent of musk and wine as he turned my face gently from side to side. Our gazes met in the flickering lamplight.
    “I want to please you,” I whispered.
    Outside the wavy glass of the windows, rain commenced, first pounding in a curtain of gray, then softening into a silvery hum. He leaned down and touched his lips to mine. Warmth spread through my body, the waves continuing as he pulled away.
    “Then,” he whispered back, “you shall get your wish.”

    Yes, it hurt, at first. And there was blood, but not much—the amount one would spill from a small cut. The next time he gave me more chance to understand. He showed himself to me, a dear jaunty fellow sheathed in dusky silk. I touched his turtle dove’s eggs nestled beneath. And then he got on his elbows and explored me, talking to me gently as does a master to its frightened horse. Soon, very soon, the sweetness much outweighed the pain.
    We did not emerge from my chamber until the following afternoon, and only then to eat and drink. He bade me try the beer of which the Flemish people are so fond, and when I spat it out, he laughed as though I were the cleverest girl in the world. Then we retired again to my chamber, which still smelled strongly of sex, and held back our laughter while a page hurriedly remade the fire, dropping the wood out of nervousness as we watched him from our bed.
    We made love again. After that, he rose from me, washed his face in the basin, then threw himself on the