Chapter 12: Beldren What we Deserve, Part 4

When Beldren woke, the shed was dimly lit by the sun. His empty stomach clenched and growled. His dry throat felt tight and scratchy. Though he worked up a mouthful of saliva, the thick, warm fluid did little to quench his thirst.

His friends hung, their legs bent and their bodies dangling by their arms. His own shoulders screamed from having done the same and he wondered how long they were supposed to live like this. There had to be a way to escape

A slave brought water, but no bread. Beldren gulped his portion and watched as Patrick tried to hold the liquid in his ruined mouth. The side of his face had doubled in size and a yellow crust formed over the incisions. Beldren remembered enough from his uncle's physician act to know that it was badly infected. Without treatment, Patrick would likely die. He ran through the remedies in his head and tried to imagine which one "Doctor Joseph Fenchurch" would have prescribed. No doubt a round of bloodletting, then the useless application of something that smelled like coffee and rotten cabbage.

Being a doctor's apprentice was one of the worst years Beldren could remember. The lists of remedies and maladies was dizzying and, in most cases, the remedies were worse than the sickness. Uncle Sweeny hadn't had a knack for physician's work. After the Goodmead's baby died under his care, he'd given up. Though it was usually forgotten in the retelling, the mob of angry villagers who'd discovered the fraud had something to do with the decision. A carriage ride through the night with only the clothes on their backs and a sack of coins later, and they were no longer doctors, but displaced aristocracy.

Uncle Sweeny had almost gotten trapped into another marriage that time. It was only the suspicious nature of his intended's sister that had interrupted everything. A letter stating that Hubert who-ever had never lived in Sheffield was convincing enough that even Beldren's aunt-to-be flew into a rage. A night ride bareback on a stolen horse with only their clothes and a sack of coins later, and they were back in London where they played tailor for two months, until his uncle fell into school mastery for a few weeks

The swindles went on and on. Each with a new name, new clothes, and a new history. Beldren had played everything from orphan to illegitimate son of the King not that that had lasted long. When the course was run, and their fraud discovered, it was a crazed dash through the night, dodging angry people and sometimes his uncle's wives. He'd lost count of how many there were in total, but he knew it was enough to start a small colony, should they ever get together.

The thought made him smile, despite the pain in his arms and legs, and the emotion carried him on to other memories. To a large manor and a garden scented with summersweet. Joan stood among the flowers. Her blue dress matched her eyes, and her golden hair fell in curls around her puffed sleeves. She picked up her skirts and hurried toward him, her smile as bright as the sun. And then-

And then the truth was discovered. Her mother threw out the vagabond posing as her new husband, and the boy pretending to be his son. In his usual rush, Uncle Sweeny loaded up a bag of gold and gifts, but Beldren refused to go with him. The man who should have been like a father to him waited all of a minute, then shrugged and rode away, the gold clinking as he disappeared.

Beldren had gone back to the manor. He'd thrown himself at Joan's feet and begged her forgiveness. Her eyes were like ice and her words even colder, "I cannot forgive such betrayal. Go, and may we never meet again."

And go he had, all the way to the colonies as an indentured servant. He'd followed the promise of land but had gained very little for his labor, aside from callouses, sunburns, and blisters. And now this. Hung in a barn, to be fed upon by demons. Somehow, the end seemed fitting given his life.

But he wasn't ready for an ending. Not yet. He needed to discover a means of survival, a way to escape. If Uncle Sweeny had taught him anything, it was that life could begin again and again. One had only to decide on the resurrection and reinvent themselves. If he escaped this hell he would travel to the frontier. Perhaps being a physician wasn't as bad as he remembered. Certainly better than farming.

His mind ran in circles. He called to Duncan and Patrick, but got only moans and ravings. With night came Thomasin and Mabel. Thomasin didn't bite Patrick, but lanced his arm and poured his blood into a cut glass pitcher. Blood letting, Beldren thought. At least it seemed that they were trying to care for their prisoner. He watched the scarlet liquid, dark in the dim light, and felt his throat tighten with thirst. No. 'tis not wine, but blood.

Duncan raged and pulled against his chains, croaking threats. Thomasin finished the bloodletting and turned to him with disdain. She raised the vessel and Beldren thought she might throw it on her unruly prisoner. Instead she brought it to her lips and drank.

Beldren's stomach clenched and rolled. He looked away and Mabel gazed at him questioningly. "'Tis only a little blood. Is our gentleman so squeamish?"

"She drinks it!" Beldren cried.

"Of course, sir, what else should she do with it?"

Ismene marched into the building and grabbed the pitcher from her sister's hands. "She should take it to the house as she was told to do. Both of you, come. Now."

Thomasin made a face but followed the blonde. Mabel seemed to weigh her options and stepped close to Beldren. "I find that blood is best warm and alive, don't you, sir?" Before he could form an answer she bit his arm. It lasted only a moment before she pulled away regretfully. "Alas, Ismene has grand plans for our evening. I believe she'd have sent the slaves to collect the blood if she could get them to do it properly. No matter. Until we meet again."

She hurried away and Beldren bit his lip to stop from shouting after her. Not yet. She's not softened up yet. Just a little longer.

Hopefully he had a little longer.