My daughter-in-law Marie is quite right: I am a foolish old man, a dotard. When I had set down these last words of my tale of Robin and King Richard, and Goody and Nur, I fell into a deep and dreamless sleep on top of my bed. I awoke with the day half gone, but feeling refreshed and strangely calm. Marie and I sat down with Osric at the long table in the great hall, and we discussed all of my fears in broad summer daylight. And I have been a fool; it is true. Marie and Osric have been concerned for me. They know that I have not been sleeping well, and my behaviour — my habit of following Osric about the countryside, of watching him constantly, worst of all of leaping out on him from concealment — has been strange and worrying to them. Marie and Osric have both been deeply concerned about me for weeks now. The white powder? It was a medicine, a balm for careworn hearts and an aid to sound sleep, purchased in secret from the apothecary — who much resented having to make midnight assignations to sell his wares — and slipped discreetly into my food so that I could not object and raise a rumpus.
It was a deception that Marie and Osric used which was kindly meant: a lie of love. And yet I feel that I have been betrayed — not by Osric, my mole-ish bailiff, nor by my bustling daughter-in-law, but by my own fogged and aged mind. Perhaps Nur’s curse has come true, at last, and I am in truth losing my mind. I see the past so clearly now, I can remember so well the days when I was young Sir Alan of Westbury, a knight of great prowess and courage. But the present? What am I now? A confused old man who leaps out at his servants from behind doors to catch them in imaginary crimes. A dotard.
I remember my glorious past so clearly, and my head is there for most of the day while I write. And where better to spend my last few years on this earth than with my younger, stronger self — with that young man so full of light and love and hope? The indignities of age come to all men who live long enough — but not all men can say that they had the friendship of kings and outlaws and heroes in their prime; that they walked proud and tall, without fear — before the weight and care of years bowed their backs. But I can. I can say, I can swear before God, that I have played my part on the world’s stage. And played it to the fullest.
Perhaps I am a silly old fool now, perhaps Nur’s malice has reached out to me from beyond the grave. I know that some might say that the black Hag of Hallamshire’s other prophecies also came true: my lovely wife Goody is dead; and my son Rob, too. But I tell myself that I do not believe in curses: that they are no more than idle talk to frighten children. And I was a warrior, once, a knight of England — and so I will fight; I will fight her witch’s curse — as Goody fought her in the hall at Kirkton on the day of our betrothal; I will fight with all my strength to keep my mind hale and whole. I will struggle to keep my foolish fears at bay. For I can see now that Osric never had the intention of doing me harm. Nor Marie neither. We are reconciled, my loyal, harmless, mole-ish bailiff and I, and I have humbly begged his pardon for my foolishness.
But I still do not like him.