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    A Connecticut Vampire in King Arthur's Court
    A Connecticut Vampire in King Arthur's Court
    A Connecticut Vampire in King Arthur's Court
    Ebook322 pages4 hours

    A Connecticut Vampire in King Arthur's Court

    By Ian Hall

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    About this ebook

    21st century vampire Richard DeVere never intended to become a time traveler. When he is mysteriously catapulted back five hundred years into the dawn of the Tudor age, he suddenly finds himself in the reign of King Henry the Seventh. It’s safe to say that he’s abruptly shaken out of his comfort zone.
    Despite the physical advantages afforded a vampire, he feels strangely vulnerable in a medieval world where wooden stakes and arrows are the norm. He knows he must adapt if he is to survive the turbulent and barbaric times.
    Posing as tutor in remote Ludlow Castle, Richard DeVere is swept along in the tide of events as young crown Prince Arthur prepares to ascend the throne with his bride-to-be Catherine of Aragon. Richard's knowledge of Tudor England is sketchy at best but he remembers enough to realize that it's Arthur's brother Henry who is destined to become an infamous king.
    With the influence of beguiling Lady Jane Winterbrooke and the spirited support of Sir Gruffydd Rhys in Arthur’s court, Richard begins to wonder if history should be changed...
    If it could be changed...

    "A Connecticut Vampire in King Arthur's Court" is the first book of the new "Connecticut Vampire" series. Book 2 is expected in Autumn 2013, and book 3 is expected before Christmas 2013.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherIan Hall
    Release dateAug 19, 2013
    ISBN9781301711314
    A Connecticut Vampire in King Arthur's Court
    Author

    Ian Hall

    Ian Hall is a former Commander Officer of No. 31 Squadron (1992-4), as well as being the editor and writer of the Squadron Association's three-times-a-year 32-page newsletter. He is the author of Upwards, an aviation-themed novel currently available as a Kindle download. This is his first full-length historical study, having previously penned a 80-page history of No 31 Squadron's early Tornado years.

    Read more from Ian Hall

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      Book preview

      A Connecticut Vampire in King Arthur's Court - Ian Hall

      Unknown date

      Bedchamber

      Never being known for any outward bursts of emotion, I pressed my back against the cold stone wall and swallowed hard.

      What the heck had just happened?

      Still sweating from my fight, I panted quietly, allowing my breathing to return as close to normal as my current circumstances would allow.

      Illuminated by a duet of candles on either side of the rather grand bed, the dimly-lit room before me looked quite austere. Apart from two antique drawer units, the room lay bare and dusty.

      I did the usual anti-panic measures; I pinched myself, I slapped my cheek lightly, then I spoke.

      Hello?

      My voice sounded dull, with no trace of echo, the bare stone walls absorbing all its energy.

      Everything seemed perfectly normal.

      Except of course, that seconds before I had been in a dark Connecticut alleyway, spiraling in mortal combat with Fallon.

      We’d been spinning so rapidly, my head still felt light and disorientated.

      I felt pretty weirded out, I can tell you.

      I took a step towards the light, alarmed by the loud crunching of my cowboy boots on the straw strewn on the smooth stone floor. Rough under my feet, like the walls; not tile. Sensing movement outside the room, I stopped to listen; footfalls outside the door. I flattened myself against the wall again, sidling towards the darker corner, my boot soles again scraping against the straw and the rough surface below.

      The door burst open, and a gangly teenage boy raced in, barefoot, aiming himself at the bed. His long nightshirt trailed after him like a milky Superman cape.

      I shall not write another letter, not one! he screamed, landing with a considerable thump on the bedding. Considering the advances in mattress manufacture, I could have made some recommendations. I mean, this bed just didn’t give anything under his aerial assault; the bedclothes could have been made of cement.

      An arm stretched inside the room, and pulled the door closed. Goodnight, your highness.

      Oh boy, not only a cold, dark bedroom, but a brat to contend with.

      "Me solum relinquatis!" he yelled over his shoulder at the closed door.

      Wow, that surprised me for a comeback. I know Latin when I hear it. At eighteen, I’d done a year’s work placement at a lawyer’s firm back in Farmington, Connecticut, and although I didn’t know exactly what he’d said, it had sounded pretty good.

      Then he began muttering under his breath, his hands tightly clasped.

      Praying? Even under the illumination of the candles, it was difficult to tell.

      Then he confirmed it by rolling over onto his back and crossing himself. With a petulant breath aimed accurately at each candle, he threw the room into total darkness.

      In minutes, the sounds of light snoring drifted across the void.

      I sighed in relief.

      Keeping my back to the wall, and considering the debris on the floor, I moved as quietly as I could along to a heavily curtained window, and slipped behind the thick dark drapes. My fingers met a cold stone lintel, and I recoiled in shock; man, the stone felt icy cold. The windows were misted completely, and it took me several minutes to get clear a patch, then let it dry so I could see outside.

      It looked as dark as pitch from my window to whatever horizon existed. I could vaguely see the tops of trees, and a long, sliver of a moon behind some dark scuffing clouds, but little else. No artificial lights to give me a clue of where I had ended up.

      Nothing.

      Keeping behind the curtain, I lifted a foot and dragged my boot off. I flinched as my foot returned to the floor though; even through the dried grasses it seemed that every surface in this house felt cold!

      With my boots in my hands, I proceeded to creep across the room, still crunching with every step, and headed for the door. Thankfully there were no creaky floorboards to contend with, but the stone did feel icy under my bare feet.

      I turned the handle, conscious that I’d be silhouetted from the bed, but certain if I was discovered and the alarm raised, my vampire speed would take me out of any trouble. As I held the door ajar, the corridor beyond looked relatively dark, and candles high on the wall at regular intervals gave a semblance of light. Grasses and dried leaves of many kinds covered the floors here, too. A man sat on a stiff-backed chair right by the side of the lintel, his head dropping in weariness. I gave a deep breath and sped away, paying him little attention, leaving the sleepy man to contend with the now-open door.

      Once around the corner I slowed, my breath going before me. I walked along corridors of closed doors, listening carefully at each. It seemed that either the whole floor had gone to bed, or the brat had left the party early.

      At last I came to stone stairs leading downwards, then onto a wooden minstrel’s gallery, overlooking a room below. I crept forward to see three occupants crowded around the remnants of a huge fire. Logs burned red in the stone hearth. I looked at the flickering candles on the high candelabra and the taut rope anchored below, holding it in place.

      Stone walls loomed high above me, heavy wooden trusses held up a dark, smoke-filled ceiling; this was indeed a castle.

      In the room below, two women wore huge dresses, Elizabethan or something; definitely renaissance festival garb. The single guy, in dark doublet, tights, and still wearing his feathered hat, sipped at a small glass, and encouraged his companions to do the same. A long sword hung from his waist, almost to the ground.

      The Prince will be sleeping before he knows, the elder woman giggled as she spoke. I lace his evening drink with my ‘special’ mixture every night. Have done for years. She looked on the portly side, not really my taste, but she had an engaging smile. Her brown hair was pulled severely from her forehead, resulting in a bun arrangement behind.

      Then we can retire to your room? The man nudged the side of her exposed cleavage.

      They both giggled. The younger woman, more a girl really, smiled politely.

      But, my dear Sir Clive, what would your wife think?

      Sir Clive laughed in an exaggerated way, perhaps more influenced by the drink than I’d first thought. He looked older than the ladies, maybe fortyish, and although his wide-brimmed hat hid most of his features from my high position, his bushy black beard and mustache held a peppering of grey. Why, Mistress Phillipa, she would think naught, as she has no notion I still manage ink in my quill! And he chortled at his own joke.

      The ladies pretended to blush, exchanging glances, but did not disengage from his company; in fact they allowed Sir Clive to top up their glasses.

      The younger girl looked by far the prettier of the two, slim and willowy, she wore her fair hair in a ponytail, looking far less austere than Phillipa, but she stayed silent, except to laugh, which they did a lot. Looking down on their considerable cleavages, my vampire hormones started to come to the fore. Bare necks meant a meal, and these two had placed themselves firmly on the platter.

      Perhaps we can encourage young Eleanor here to join us? He nuzzled closer to the young girl.

      Oh, I am quite certain I could entertain you on my own. Phillipa checked him, moving protectively towards the young girl; sixteen, seventeen maybe.

      Sir Clive gave a huge grin, satisfied that his strategy had worked. And how will you entertain me? He leant close to her bosom, breathing low onto her pale skin.

      His whiskers must have been tickling, for she moved instinctively away. Oh, trust me, Sir Clive, I can be very inventive.

      I mentally pleaded with Mistress Phillipa to take Clive away, leaving Eleanor in my grasp, but it seemed that after hooking her fish, she gave little concern to its further capture. After finishing their drinks, taking Eleanor by the hand, a grinning Phillipa breezed past the poor man, leaving him languishing in their wake.

      Perhaps another time, Sir Clive.

      They disappeared below, and I heard their footsteps on a staircase. Turning, I raced to the door behind me, just in time to see the pair pass by.

      And that, dearest Eleanor, is how we get free drinks at the end of the day. They both giggled into their hands as they passed, neither of them giving my open doorway a second glance. Cook cannot complain if Sir Clive is pouring.

      I understand, Mistress. Eleanor voiced her opinion in a strange, lilting accent; the first time I’d heard her speak. Her voice lay heavy with regional English overtones I couldn’t easily place.

      I hope so; it could lift you in station one day.

      I followed, one corner behind, and watched them bid each other goodnight, then enter different rooms. I memorized the location of both Phillipa’s and Eleanor’s doors, then retraced my steps back past the minstrel gallery door to find another staircase downwards.

      Once on the ground floor, I began to map the structure in my mind, while continually looking for some idea of where we actually were. To my astonishment, I began to realize that the building lay devoid of all modern appliances.

      No electricity outlets, no phones; in fact, no invention past the sixteenth century. Smoky candles provided the only method of lighting, and log fires seemed to be the only heating source.

      The entire floor seemed deserted, Sir Clive obviously having already removed himself for the night.

      Then I also noticed another notable omission; clocks.

      No timepieces of any kind whatsoever.

      My mind had already jumped to a conclusion that would be difficult to fathom, but then, going from a vampire struggle to a dark bedroom also beggared my belief system.

      I followed my nose outside into a dark courtyard, and then inside again, landing in the kitchen.

      Yup, totally stone age.

      Still no electricity, but also no ducting for the wood-burning stoves that lined one long wall. I looked behind them, and found nothing. The smoke from the stoves would rise into the rafters high above. I looked up for some sign of a chimney, but again came up wanting.

      I walked back outside to the courtyard. In the darkness I could make out an archway, and a road beyond. No gate barred the arch, but two soldiers stood on either side. I retraced my steps past the kitchen, and back into the building where the apartments lay.

      With my mind in turmoil, I raced back upstairs to Phillipa’s room, listened at the door, then slipped inside. I raced to her bed before she could even think of shouting an alarm, and clamped my hand over her mouth.

      Mistress Phillipa. I looked deep into her eyes and allowed my vampire breath to pass over her face. I mean you no harm, do you understand me? Confident my pheromones would calm her, turning her submissive and pliable.

      Captive in my hands, she nodded, her eyes blinking at me.

      I need answers to some questions, and I don’t want you to call out, okay?

      Her brows furrowed, seemingly unable to understand my instructions fully. She looked from my face to my Pink Floyd T-shirt. You wish me to remain silent? She spoke quietly through my fingers.

      Yes, I said finding her sudden obtrusiveness annoying. I mean, come on, my Connecticut accent wasn’t that difficult to understand. Just answer my questions. Where are we? I relaxed my hand from her mouth.

      "Why, good sir, we are in my bedchamber."

      I shook my head in frustration. What place is this? What building is this?

      She looked at me like she’d seen a madman, her eyebrows all furrowed low on her pretty plump face.

      I came in off the road, lost in the darkness. I strove in my mind to become more ‘period’, more old fashioned, for it seemed she only understood that mannerism. I thought of an Amish community, and tried to affect such an ‘olden day’ cadence to my speech. I only wish to be told where I am.

      Why, sire, you are in Ludlow Castle.

      Well, I’d been in Connecticut for many years, surrounded on all sides by English-sounding place names, but Ludlow had never been mentioned. What county?

      She looked at me oddly. I believe we are in Shropshire, sire.

      Never heard of it.

      She flinched from me. Beg pardon, sire?

      Why, Phillipa, I have never heard of a Connecticut county called Shropshire.

      She began to edge away from me, despite my grip on her body. Sir, you speak strangely, your dress is… strange, and you press me for answers which I seem not to have.

      I moved closer, holding her head in as gentle a vice grip as I could. I’m getting fucking sick of this ‘Olde Worlde’ bullshit! I railed through clenched teeth. I let my breath slowly cascade over her face. Tell me the truth, Phillipa, only the truth. Do you understand? She nodded, her eyes clouding somewhat; her last resistance to my questioning now extinguished. Where are we?

      Ludlow Castle, sire.

      And where exactly in the world is Ludlow Castle, Phillipa?

      She paused. In England, sire, near the Welsh border.

      Crap; not the answer I’d expected.

      I felt a twitching in my body as my mind dealt with the information. What she’d told me seemed beyond the pale, beyond my imagination. And yet I’d travelled from the grip of a spinning vampire to being alone in a dark bedroom, and I did not question that.

      But a question loomed in the dark of my subconscious, one which surfaced quickly as a realization dawned. What year is it? I asked, my lip already trembling, anticipating her reply.

      My captive looked to be crumbling before me, even under the control of my vampire breath, scared out of her wits. It is the year of our Lord, fifteen hundred and one, sire.

      My turn to crumble. I tried to think rationally, but found the processes unavailable to me.

      Sleep, Phillipa, forget me, I said, letting her head rest back onto the firm pillow.

      Even my vampire requirement to feed from her neck lay forgotten as I picked up my boots and walked bemused to her door.

      1501.

      Shit.

      1501?

      Consolidation

      I made my way silently down to the courtyard, then sped under the long archway between the two drowsy guards, across a further larger grassy courtyard, and through the open main gate. Houses lay immediately beyond these outer walls, and carried on down the hill, but I soon left those behind me. The wet ground under my bare feet woke my consciousness still further, and the bracing cold air filled my lungs as I raced faster, putting miles between me and the dark cold walls of Ludlow Castle.

      Eventually my feet hit water, and I suddenly found myself out of my depth in a dark river.

      Startled out of my need for flight, I turned around, swimming back for shore. Finally my feet found the pebbled bottom and I walked from the river, my clothes soaking, my body shaking with nervous energy.

      Slowly, I began to process. Nowhere in my flight had I seen any form of artificial lighting. No roads to speak of, nothing of modern construction.

      I sat on the grassy riverbank, my head in my hands, trying to make any sense of the situation, and found that only one possibility, no matter how implausible it seemed; I had indeed travelled through time and space, and ended up in England in 1501.

      With the slowing of my heart came the rationality required to deal with the situation. I needed clothes, and I needed pretty good ones. The choice of serf in this day and age would not be good for my survival. Vampires die from wood through the heart and beheading, both of which are part and parcel of Tudor times; I’d seen enough evidence on television.

      I needed an identity. I needed a backstory, and I needed some kind of safe haven in which to hide, gather my thoughts, and settle myself down.

      Then I had to find a way back to the good ole USA.

      Ludlow Castle, I said out loud against the gentle trickling noise of the river. No shit.

      I sat beside the cool water, realizing that I’d lost my boots somewhere on the flight from the castle.

      Damn, I said, shaking my head. If anything I could recall about the period, footwear hadn’t been high on the technology side. Not that my cowboy boots would have fitted in anyway.

      Then I pondered the period, trying to recall anything which would help me re-orientate myself in these strange, distant times.

      England, 1501 meant King Henry the Eighth or thereabouts. Queen Elizabeth? I cursed myself for not paying more attention at school or even to the Tudors on HBO. The White Queen on Starz had been popular, but I had no idea if it had been close to 1501.

      Connecticut had one of the biggest Renaissance Fairs in the country, but I hadn’t even been since I was a kid.

      And that was back in the eighties. So much for my education.

      I’d been ‘turned’ back in 2000, just a few months after my twenty-fourth birthday; initiated into ranks of the immortal, and as a vampire I would remain twenty-four years old until someone put a stick through my heart, turning me to the finest dust.

      Oh yeah, and isn’t it a strange turn of irony that puts Jonathan Rhys Myers as Henry the Eighth on the Tudors on HBO, then casts him as Dracula, the most famous vampire. Then me, a vampire, ends up in King Henry’s time.

      My scattering of glances at the television didn’t help me now, but my priorities seemed to be settling in my mind; food, clothes, and information. Those would aid my survival more than anything else.

      If the year actually turned out to be 1501, then everyone carried swords and such, and edged weapons were detrimental to a vampire’s health.

      Stripping my Floyd T shirt and tossing it to one side, I walked from the river and made my way away from the water, following the rutted roadway I’d strayed from. Turning left led back to the castle, so I began to walk. My head felt light and I knew I needed to feed, but I also needed to calm myself down, to begin thinking rationally. Ludlow Castle had proven itself a known quantity, and seemed as good a place to start as any.

      As I walked, the sky slowly began to lighten, signaling the beginnings of dawn. Thank goodness modern vampires don’t get burnt by sunlight; I don’t know what I would have done just having a life at night.

      Then I smelled smoke. I stopped in my tracks, and found the wind direction. A walk of less than a half mile through woodland brought me to a small house. Cottage style, shutters on the windows, with either mud or stucco used to finish its rough walls. Smoke drifted through the thatching high on the roof; no chimney then.

      The increased levels of my vampire senses started to rise to the fore. As I approached the house, noises from within became evident. Then I caught the slight smell of cooking. Porridge, maybe, certainly nothing meat-based.

      …pasture today. I heard as I neared the door. The words were thick with accent.

      Yes, papa. A female voice, young, but maybe not too young.

      Sensing nothing to alarm me, I knocked on the door. Hello?

      I heard movement inside, then the door opened slowly. A man stood in the doorway, his hands clutching a pitchfork, aimed at my throat. Argh? I moved back from the sharp tines. Even the serfs proved dangerous in 1501.

      I’m lost, I said slowly. I seek directions to the castle.

      The man’s face and clothes looked filthy, his hair uncombed and uncut. Perhaps seeing me unarmed, he lowered the pitchfork. Argh, ye be lost a’right. He moved back and waved me inside. Gentry, Elsie, the gen’lman be gentry.

      On initial impression, the inside of the house looked as unkempt as the man’s hair, but once properly inside, it appeared just to be cluttered and disorganized. A central fire burnt on the clay floor, a large pot suspended above it.

      You been robbed, sire? the man asked, pointing to my bare, bleeding feet.

      Yes, I immediately replied, latching onto that particular detail, as it fit my predicament so well. Robbers, they took everything.

      Kept yir pants, tho’ I see. He pointed to my wet black jeans.

      Aye, I said, getting into the structure of the language. But naught else.

      Wat be yir name, sire?

      Richard, I replied truthfully without any thought. Richard DeVere.

      Well, Master DeVere, we can offer ye porridge, that’s all. He ushered me away from his daughter stirring the pot at the stove, her eyes seemingly intent on her task, yet still catching glances at me. Per’aps you’d like to get out o’ yir trews, an’ get ‘em dried out?

      I’m glad that I’d kept my wits about me, because as I nodded and looked to the back of the one-roomed house, I saw movement behind me, and ducked quickly. A large staff whistled over my head; so close, I felt it brush my hair.

      I snarled at the dark recess of the room and dragged a youth from the shadows. One punch to the forehead sent him reeling, his body limp, back into the darkness.

      I turned to find the pitchfork being thrust at me, and slipped quickly to one side,

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