A Reputed Changeling

CHAPTER XXIX
The Assize Court

 
“O terror! what hath she perceived?  O joy,
What doth she look on? whom hath she perceived?”
 

WORDSWORTH.

Time wore away, and the Lent Assizes at Winchester had come.  Sir Philip had procured the best legal assistance for his nephew, but in criminal cases, though the prisoner was allowed the advice of counsel, the onus of defence rested upon himself.  To poor Anne’s dismay, a subpoena was sent to her, as well as to her uncle, to attend as a witness at the trial.  Sir Philip was too anxious to endure to remain at a distance from Winchester, and they travelled in his coach, Sir Edmund Nutley escorting them on horseback, while Lucy was left with her mother, both still in blissful ignorance.  They took rooms at the George Inn.  That night was a strange and grievous one to Anne, trying hard to sleep so as to be physically capable of composure and presence of mind, yet continually wakened by ghastly dreams, and then recollecting that the sense of something terrible was by no means all a dream.

Very white, very silent, but very composed, she came to the sitting-room, and was constrained by her uncle and Sir Philip to eat, much as it went against her.  On this morning Sir Philip had dropped his sternness towards her, and finding a moment when his son-in-law was absent, he said, “Child, I know that this is wellnigh, nay, quite as hard for you as for me.  I can only say, Let no earthly regards hold you back from whatever is your duty to God and man.  Speak the truth whatever betide, and leave the rest to the God of truth.  God bless you, however it may be;” and he kissed her brow.

The intelligence that the trial was coming on was brought by Sedley’s counsel, Mr. Simon Harcourt.  They set forth for the County Hall up the sharply-rising street, thronged with people, who growled and murmured at the murderer savagely, Sir Philip, under the care of his son-in-law, and Anne with her uncle.  Mr. Harcourt was very hopeful; he said the case for the prosecution had not a leg to stand on, and that the prisoner himself was so intelligent, and had so readily understood the line of defence to take, that he ought to have been a lawyer.  There would be no fear except that it might be made a party case, and no stone was likely to be left unturned against a gentleman of good loyal family.  Moreover Mr. William Cowper, whom Robert Oakshott, or rather his wife, had engaged at great expense for the prosecution, was one of the most rising of barristers, noted for his persuasive eloquence, and unfortunately Mr. Harcourt had not the right of reply.

The melancholy party were conducted into court, Sir Philip and Sir Edmund to the seats disposed of by the sheriff, beside the judge, strangely enough only divided by him from Major Oakshott.  The judge was Mr. Baron Hatsel, a somewhat weak-looking man, in spite of his red robes and flowing wig, as he sat under his canopy beneath King Arthur’s Round Table.  Sedley, perhaps a little thinner since his imprisonment, but with the purple red on his face, and his prominent eyes so hard and bold that it was galling to know that this was really the confidence of innocence.

Mr. Cowper was with great ability putting the case.  Here were two families in immediate neighbourhood, divided from the first by political opinions of the strongest complexion; and he put the Oakshott views upon liberty, civil and religious, in the most popular light.  The unfortunate deceased he described as having been a highly promising member of the suite of the distinguished Envoy, Sir Peregrine Oakshott, whose name he bore.  On the death of the eldest brother he had been recalled, and his accomplishments and foreign air had, it appeared, excited the spleen of the young gentlemen of the county belonging to the Tory party, then in the ascendant, above all of the prisoner.  There was then little or no etiquette as to irrelevant matter, so that Mr. Cowper could dwell at length on Sedley’s antecedents, as abusing the bounty of his uncle, a known bully expelled for misconduct from Winchester College, then acting as a suitable instrument in those violences in Scotland which had driven the nation finally to extremity, noted for his debaucheries when in garrison, and finally broken for insubordination in Ireland.

After this unflattering portrait, which Sedley’s looks certainly did not belie, the counsel went back to 1688, proceeded to mention several disputes which had taken place when Peregrine had met Lieutenant Archfield at Portsmouth; but, he added with a smile, that no dart of malice was ever thoroughly winged till Cupid had added his feather; and he went on to describe in strong colours the insult to a young gentlewoman, and the interference of the other young man in her behalf, so that swords were drawn before the appearance of the reverend gentleman her uncle.  Still, he said, there was further venom to be added to the bolt, and he showed that the two had parted after the rejoicings on Portsdown Hill with a challenge all but uttered between them, the Whig upholding religious liberty, the Tory hotly defending such honour as the King possessed, and both parting in anger.

Young Mr. Oakshott was never again seen alive, though his family long hoped against hope.  There was no need to dwell on the strange appearances that had incited them to the search.  Certain it was, that after seven years’ silence, the grave had yielded up its secrets.  Then came the description of the discovery of the bones, and of the garments and sword, followed by the mention of the evidence as to the blood on the grass, and the prisoner having been seen in the neighbourhood of the castle at that strange hour.  He was observed to have an amount of money unusual with him soon after, and, what was still more suspicious, after having gambled this away, he had sold to a goldsmith at Southampton a ruby ring, which both Mr. and Mrs. Oakshott could swear to have belonged to the deceased.  In fact, when Mr. Cowper marshalled the facts, and even described the passionate encounter taking place hastily and without witnesses, and the subsequent concealment of guilt in the vault, the purse taken, and whatever could again be identified hidden, while providentially the blocking up of the vault preserved the evidence of the crime so long undetected and unavenged, it was hardly possible to believe the prisoner innocent.

When the examination of the witnesses began, however, Sedley showed himself equal to his own defence.  He made no sign when Robert Oakshott identified the clothes, sword, and other things, and their condition was described; but he demanded of him sharply how he knew the human remains to be those of his brother.

“Of course they were,” said Robert.

“Were there any remains of clothes with them?”

“No.”

“Can you swear to them?  Did you ever before see your brother’s bones?”

At which, and at the witness’s hesitating, “No, but—” the court began to laugh.

“What was the height of the deceased?”

“He reached about up to my ear,” said the witness with some hesitation.

“What was the length of the skeleton?”

“Quite small.  It looked like a child’s.”

“My lord,” said Sedley, “I have a witness here, a surgeon, whom I request may be called to certify the proportion of a skeleton to the size of a living man.”

Though this was done, the whole matter of size was so vague that there was nothing proved, either as to the inches of Peregrine or those of the skeleton, but still Sedley made his point that the identity of the body was unproved at least in some minds.  Still, there remained the other articles, about which there was no doubt.

Mr. Cowper proceeded with his examination as to the disputes at Portsmouth, but again the prisoner scored a point by proving that Peregrine had staked the ring against him at a cock-fight at Southampton, and had lost it.

Dr. Woodford was called, and his evidence could not choose but to be most damaging as to the conflict on the road at Portsmouth; but as he had not seen the beginning, ‘Mistress Anne Jacobina Woodford’ was called for.

There she stood, tall and stately, almost majestic in the stiffness of intense self-restraint, in her simple gray dress, her black silk hood somewhat back, her brown curls round her face, a red spot in each cheek, her earnest brown eyes fixed on the clerk as he gabbled out the words so awful to her, “The truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth;” and her soul re-echoed the words, “So help you God.”

Mr. Cowper was courteous; he was a gentleman, and he saw she was no light-minded girl.  He asked her the few questions needful as to the attack made on her, and the defence; but something moved him to go on and ask whether she had been on Portsdown Hill, and to obtain from her the account of the high words between the young men.  She answered each question in a clear low voice, which still was audible to all.  Was it over, or would Sedley begin to torture her, when so much was in his favour?  No!  Mr. Cowper—oh! why would he? was asking in an affirmative tone, as if to clench the former evidence, “And did you ever see the deceased again?”

“Yes.”  The answer was at first almost choked, then cleared into sharpness, and every eye turned in surprise on the face that had become as white as her collar.

“Indeed!  And when?”

“The next morning,” in a voice as if pronouncing her own doom, and with hands clinging tight to the front of the witness-box as though in anguish.

“Where?” said the counsel, like inexorable fate.

“I will save the gentlewoman from replying to that question, sir;” and a gentleman with long brown hair, in a rich white and gold uniform, rose from among the spectators.  “Perhaps I may be allowed to answer for her, when I say that it was at Portchester Castle, at five in the morning, that she saw Peregrine Oakshott slain by my hand, and thrown into the vault.”

There was a moment of breathless amazement in the court, and the judge was the first to speak.  “Very extraordinary, sir!  What is your name?”

“Charles Archfield,” said the clear resolute voice.

Then came a general movement and sensation, and Anne, still holding fast to the support, saw the newcomer start forward with a cry, “My father!” and with two or three bounds reach the side of Sir Philip, who had sunk back in his seat for a moment, but recovered himself as he felt his son’s arm round him.

There was a general buzz, and a cry of order, and in the silence thus produced the judge addressed the witness:—

“Is what this gentleman says the truth?”

And on Anne’s reply, “Yes, my Lord,” spoken with the clear ring of anguish, the judge added—

“Was the prisoner present?”

“No, my Lord; he had nothing to do with it.”

“Then, brother Cowper, do you wish to proceed with the case?”

Mr. Cowper replied in the negative, and the judge then made a brief summing-up, and the jury, without retiring, returned a verdict of ‘Not guilty.’

In the meantime Anne had been led like one blinded from the witness-box, and almost dropped into her uncle’s arms.  “Cheer up, cheer up, my child,” he said.  “You have done your part bravely, and after so upright a confession no one can deal hardly with the young man.  God will surely protect him.”

The acquittal had been followed by a few words from Baron Hatsel, congratulating the late prisoner on his deliverance through this gentleman’s generous confession.  Then there was a moment’s hesitation, ended by the sheriff asking Charles, who stood up by his old father, one arm supporting the trembling form, and the other hand clasped in the two aged ones, “Then, sir, do you surrender to take your trial?”

“Certainly, sir,” said Charles.  “I ought to have done so long ago, but in the first shock—”

Mr. Harcourt here cautioned him not to say anything that could be used against him, adding in a low tone, much to Sir Philip’s relief, “It may be brought in manslaughter, sir.”

“He should be committed,” another authority said.  “Is there a Hampshire magistrate here to sign a warrant?”

Of these there were plenty; and as the clerk asked for his description, all eyes turned on the tall and robust form in the prime of manhood, with the noble resolute expression on his fine features and steadfast eyes, except when, as he looked at his father, they were full of infinite pity.  The brown hair hung over the rich gold-laced white coat, faced with black, and with a broad gold-coloured sash fringed with black over his shoulder, and there was a look of distinction about him that made his answer only natural.  “Charles Archfield, of Archfield House, Fareham, Lieutenant-Colonel of his Imperial Majesty’s Light Dragoons, Knight of the Holy Roman Empire.  Must I give up my sword like a prisoner of war?” he asked, with a smile.

Sir Philip rose to his feet with an earnest trembling entreaty that bail might be taken for him, and many voices of gentlemen and men of substance made offers of it.  There was a little consultation, and it was ruled that bail might be accepted under the circumstances, and Charles bowed his thanks to the distant and gave his hand to the nearer, while Mr. Eyre of Botley Grange, and Mr. Brocas of Roche Court, were accepted as sureties.  The gentle old face of Mr. Cromwell of Hursley, was raised to poor old Sir Philip’s with the words, spoken with a remnant of the authority of the Protector: “Your son has spoken like a brave man, sir; God bless you, and bring you well through it.”

Charles was then asked whether he wished for time to collect witnesses.  “No, my lord,” he said.  “I thank you heartily, but I have no one to call, and the sooner this is over the better for all.”

After a little consultation it was found that the Grand Jury had not been dismissed, and could find a true bill against him; and it was decided that the trial should take place after the rest of the criminal cases were disposed of.

This settled, the sorrowful party with the strangely welcomed son were free to return to their quarters at the George.  Mr. Cromwell pressed forward to beg that they would make use of his coach.  It was a kind thought, for Sir Philip hung feebly on his son’s arm, and to pass through the curious throng would have been distressing.  After helping him in, Charles turned and demanded—

“Where is she, the young gentlewoman, Miss Woodford?”

She was just within, her uncle waiting to take her out till the crowd’s attention should be called off.  Charles lifted her in, and Sir Edmund and Dr. Woodford followed him, for there was plenty of room in the capacious vehicle.

Nobody spoke in the very short interval the four horses took in getting themselves out of the space in front of the County Hall and down the hill to the George.  Only Charles had leant forward, taken Anne’s hand, drawn it to his lips, and then kept fast hold of it.

They were all in the room at the inn at last, they hardly knew how; indeed, as Charles was about to shut the door there was a smack on his back, and there stood Sedley holding out his hand.

“So, Charley, old fellow, you were the sad dog after all.  You got me out of it, and I owe you my thanks, but you need not have put your neck into the noose.  I should have come off with flying colours, and made them all make fools of themselves, if you had only waited.”

“Do you think I could sit still and see her put to the torture?” said Charles.

“Torture?  You are thinking of your barbarous countries.  No fear of the boot here, nor even in Scotland nowadays.”

“That’s all the torture you understand,” muttered Sir Edmund Nutley.

“Not but what I am much beholden to you all the same,” went on Sedley.  “And look here, sir,” turning to his uncle, “if you wish to get him let off cheap you had better send up another special retainer to Harcourt, without loss of time, as he may be off.”

Sir Edmund Nutley concurred in the advice, and they hurried off together in search of the family attorney, through whom the great man had to be approached.

The four left together could breathe more freely.  Indeed Dr. Woodford would have taken his niece away, but that Charles already had her in his arms in a most fervent embrace, as he said, “My brave, my true maid!”

She could not speak, but she lifted up her eyes, with infinite relief in all her sorrow, as for a moment she rested against him; but they had to move apart, for a servant came up with some wine, and Charles, putting her into a chair, began to wait on her and on his father.

“I have not quite forgotten my manners,” he said lightly, as if to relieve the tension of feeling, “though in Germany the ladies serve the gentlemen.”

It was very hard not to burst into tears at these words, but Anne knew that would be the way to distress her companions and to have to leave the room and lose these precious moments.  Sir Philip, after swallowing the wine, succeeded in saying, “Have you been at home?”

Charles explained that he had landed at Gravesend, and had ridden thence, sleeping at Basingstoke, and taking the road through Winchester in case his parents should be wintering there, and on arriving a couple of hours previously and inquiring for them, he had heard the tidings that Sir Philip Archfield was indeed there, for his nephew was being tried for his life for the wilful murder of Major Oakshott’s son seven years ago.

“And you had none of my warnings?  I wrote to all the ports,” said his father, “to warn you to wait till all this was over.”

No; he had crossed from Sluys, and had met no letter.  “I suppose,” he said, “that I must not ride home to-morrow.  It might make my sureties uneasy; but I would fain see them all.”

“It would kill your mother to be here,” said Sir Philip.  “She knows nothing of what Anne told me on Sedley’s arrest.  She is grown very feeble;” and he groaned.  “But we might send for your sister, if she can leave her, and the boy.”

“I should like my boy to be fetched,” said Charles.  “I should wish him to remember his father—not as a felon convicted!”  Then putting a knee to the ground before Sir Philip, he said, “Sir, I ask your blessing and forgiveness.  I never before thoroughly understood my errors towards you, especially in hiding this miserable matter, and leaving all this to come on you, while my poor Anne there was left to bear all the load.  It was a cowardly and selfish act, and I ask your pardon.”

The old man sobbed with his hand on his son’s head.  “My dear boy! my poor boy! you were distraught.”

“I was then.  I did it, as I thought, for my poor Alice’s sake at first, and as it proved, it was all in vain; but at the year’s end, when I was older, it was folly and wrong.  I ought to have laid all before you, and allowed you to judge, and I sincerely repent the not having so done.  And Anne, my sweetest Anne, has borne the burthen all this time,” he added, going back to her.  “Let no one say a woman cannot keep secrets, though I ought never to have laid this on her.”

“Ah! it might have gone better for you then,” sighed Sir Philip.  “No one would have visited a young lad’s mischance hardly on a loyal house in those days.  What is to be done, my son?”

“That we will discuss when the lawyer fellow comes.  Is it old Lee?  Meantime let us enjoy our meeting.  So that is Lucy’s husband.  Sober and staid, eh?  And my mother is feeble, you say.  Has she been ill?”

Charles was comporting himself with the cheerfulness that had become habitual to him as a soldier, always in possible danger, but it was very hard to the others to chime in with his tone, and when a message was brought to ask whether his Honour would be served in private, the cheery greeting and shake of the hand broke down the composure of the old servant who brought it, and he cried, “Oh, sir, to see you thus, and such a fine young gentleman!”

Charles, the only person who could speak, gave the orders, but they did not eat alone, for Sir Edmund Nutley and Sedley arrived with the legal advisers, and it was needful, perhaps even better, to have their company.  The chief of the conversation was upon Hungarian and Transylvanian politics and the Turkish war.  Mr. Harcourt seeming greatly to appreciate the information that Colonel Archfield was able to give him, and the anecdotes of the war, and descriptions of scenes therein actually brightened Sir Philip into interest, and into forgetting for a moment his son’s situation in pride in his conduct, and at the distinction he had gained.  “We must save him,” said Mr. Harcourt to Sir Edmund.  “He is far too fine a fellow to be lost for a youthful mischance.”

The meal was a short one, and a consultation was to follow, while Sedley departed.  Anne was about to withdraw, when Mr. Lee the attorney said, “We shall need Mistress Woodford’s evidence, sir, for the defence.”

“I do not see what defence there can be,” returned Charles.  “I can only plead guilty, and throw myself on the King’s mercy, if he chooses to extend it to one of a Tory family.”

“Not so fast, sir,” said Mr. Harcourt; “as far as I have gathered the facts, there is every reason to hope you may obtain a verdict of manslaughter, and a nominal penalty, although that rests with the judge.”

On this the discussion began in earnest.  Charles, who had never heard the circumstances which led to the trial, was greatly astonished to hear what remains had been discovered.  He said that he could only declare himself to have thrown in the body, full dressed, just as it was, and how it could have been stripped and buried he could not imagine.  “What made folks think of looking into the vault?” he asked.

“It was Mrs. Oakshott,” said Lee, “the young man’s wife, she who was to have married the deceased.  She took up some strange notion about stories of phantoms current among the vulgar, and insisted on having the vault searched, though it had been walled up for many years past.”

Charles and Anne looked at each other, and the former said, “Again?”

“Oh yes!” said Anne; “indeed there have been enough to make me remember what you bade me do, in case they recurred, only it was impossible.”

“Phantoms!” said Mr. Harcourt; “what does this mean?”

“Mere vulgar superstitions, sir,” said the attorney.

“But very visible,” said Charles; “I have seen one myself, of which I am quite sure, besides many that may be laid to the account of the fever of my wound.”

“I must beg to hear,” said the barrister.  “Do I understand that these were apparitions of the deceased?”

“Yes,” said Charles.  “Miss Woodford saw the first, I think.”

“May I beg you to describe it?” said Mr. Harcourt, taking a fresh piece of paper to make notes on.

Anne narrated the two appearances in London, and Charles added the story of the figure seen in the street at Douai, seen by both together, asking what more she knew of.

“Once at night last summer, at the very anniversary, I saw his face in the trees in the garden,” said Anne; “it was gone in a moment.  That has been all I have seen; but little Philip came to me full of stories of people having seen Penny Grim, as he calls it, and very strangely, once it rose before him at the great pond, and his fright saved him from sliding to the dangerous part.  What led Mrs. Oakshott to the examination was that it was seen once on the beach, once by the sentry at the vault itself, once by the sexton at Havant Churchyard, and once by my mother’s grave.”

“Seven?” said the counsel, reviewing the notes he jotted down.  “Colonel Archfield, I should recommend you pleading not guilty, and basing your defence, like your cousin, on the strong probability that this same youth is a living man.”

“Indeed!” said Charles, starting, “I could have hoped it from these recent apparitions, but what I myself saw forbids the idea.  If any sight were ever that of a spirit, it was what we saw at Douai; besides, how should he come thither, a born and bred Whig and Puritan?”

“There is no need to mention that; you can call witnesses to his having been seen within these few months.  It would rest with the prosecution to disprove his existence in the body, especially as the bones in the vault cannot be identified.”

“Sir,” said Charles, “the defence that would have served my innocent cousin cannot serve me, who know what I did to Oakshott.  I am now aware that it is quite possible that the sword might not have killed him, but when I threw him into that vault I sealed his fate.”

“How deep is the vault?”

Mr. Lee and Dr. Woodford both averred that it was not above twenty or twenty-four feet deep, greatly to Charles’s surprise, for as a lad he had thought it almost unfathomable; but then he owned his ideas of Winchester High Street had been likewise far more magnificent than he found it.  The fall need not necessarily have been fatal, especially to one insensible and opposing no resistance, but even supposing that death had not resulted, in those Draconian days, the intent to murder was equally subject with its full accomplishment to capital punishment.  Still, as Colonel Archfield could plead with all his heart that he had left home with no evil intentions towards young Oakshott, the lawyers agreed that to prove that the death of the victim was uncertain would reduce the matter to a mere youthful brawl, which could not be heavily visited.  Mr. Harcourt further asked whether it were possible to prove that the prisoner had been otherwise employed than in meddling with the body; but unfortunately it had been six hours before he came home.

“I was distracted,” said Charles; “I rode I knew not whither, till I came to my senses on finding that my horse was ready to drop, when I led him into a shed at a wayside public-house, bade them feed him, took a drink, then I wandered out into the copse near, and lay on the ground there till I thought him rested, for how long I know not.  I think it must have been near Bishops Waltham, but I cannot recollect.”

Mr. Lee decided on setting forth at peep of dawn the next morning to endeavour to collect witnesses of Peregrine’s appearances.  Sir Edmund Nutley intended to accompany him as far as Fareham to fetch little Philip and Lady Nutley, if the latter could leave her mother after the tidings had been broken to them, and also to try to trace whether Charles’s arrival at any public-house were remembered.

To her dismay, Anne received another summons from the other party to act as witness.

“I hoped to have spared you this, my sweet,” said Charles, “but never mind; you cannot say anything worse of me than I shall own of myself.”

The two were left to each other for a little while in the bay window.  “Oh, sir! can you endure me thus after all?” murmured Anne, as she felt his arm round her.

“Can you endure me after all I left you to bear?” he returned.

“It was not like what I brought on you,” she said.

But they could not talk much of the future; and Charles told how he had rested through all his campaigns in the knowledge that his Anne was watching and praying for him, and how his long illness had brought before him deeper thoughts than he had ever had before, and made him especially dwell on the wrong done to his parents by his long absence, and the lightness with which he had treated home duties and responsibilities, till he had resolved that if his life were then spared, he would neglect them no longer.

“And now,” he said, and paused, “all I shall have done is to break their hearts.  What is that saying, ‘Be sure your sin will find you out.’”

“Oh, sir! they are sure not to deal hardly with you.”

“Perhaps the Emperor’s Ambassador may claim me.  If so, would you go into banishment with the felon, Anne, love?  It would not be quite so mad as when I asked you before.”

“I would go to the ends of the world with you; and we would take little Phil.  Do you know, he is growing a salad, and learning Latin, all for papa?”

And so she told him of little Phil till his father was seen looking wistfully at him.

With Sir Philip, Charles was all cheerfulness and hope, taking such interest in all there was to hear about the family, estate, and neighbourhood that the old gentleman was beguiled into feeling as if there were only a short ceremony to be gone through before he had his son at home, saving him ease and trouble.

But after Sir Philip had been persuaded to retire, worn out with the day’s agitations, and Anne likewise had gone to her chamber to weep and pray, Charles made his arrangements with Mr. Lee for the future for all connected with him in case of the worst; and after the lawyer’s departure poured out his heart to Dr. Woodford in deep contrition, as he said he had longed to do when lying in expectation of death at the Iron Gates.  “However it may end,” he said, “and I expect, as I deserve, the utmost, I am thankful for this opportunity, though unhappily it gives more pain to those about me than if I had died out there.  Tell them, when they need comfort, how much better it is for me.”

“My dear boy, I cannot believe you will have to suffer.”

“There is much against me, sir.  My foolish flight, the state of parties, and the recent conspiracy, which has made loyal families suspected and odious.  I saw something of that as I came down.  The crowd fancied my uniform French, and hooted and hissed me.  Unluckily I have no other clothes to wear.  Nor can I from my heart utterly disclaim all malice or ill will when I remember the thrill of pleasure in driving my sword home.  I have had to put an end to a Janissary or two more than once in the way of duty, but their black eyes never haunted me like those parti-coloured ones.  Still I trust, as you tell me I may, that God forgives me, for our Blessed Lord’s sake; but I should like, if I could, to take the Holy Sacrament with my love while I am still thus far a free man.  I have not done so since the Easter before these troubles.”

“You shall, my dear boy, you shall.”

There were churches at which the custom freshly begun at the Restoration was not dropped.  The next was St. Matthias’s Day, and Anne and her uncle had already purposed to go to the quiet little church of St. Lawrence, at no great distance, in the very early morning.  They were joined on their way down the stair into the courtyard of the inn by a gentleman in a slouched hat and large dark cloak, who drew Anne’s arm within his own.