床头灯.苏格兰玛丽女王

1FotheringhayMynameisBessCurle，butthisisnotmystory．ItisthestoryofmyladyMary，QueenofScots．Shewrotethestory，andthenshegaveittome．Iamgoingtogiveittoherson．Shebeganthestoryaweekago．ItwasJanuary1587，andwesathereinourcoldroominFotheringhayCastle，inthenorthofEngland．Wecouldn'tseemuchfromthewindow．Oneortwohouses，ariver，sometrees，somehorses，andaroad．That'sall．TheroadgoestoLondon，thehomeofQueenElizabethofEngland．Marysatwithherlittledoginherhandsandwatchedit，alldaylong．Noonecamealongtheroad．Nothinghappened．IwatchedMary，unhappily．‘Please，YourMajesty，comeawayfromthatwindow，’Isaid．‘Itdoesn'thelp．Nooneisgoingtocome．QueenEliza－bethcan'tdoit—Queensdon'tkillQueens．’‘Don'tthey，Bess？'marysaid．‘Thenwhyarewehere，inthisprison？WhyamInotfree？’‘Why，YourMajesty？BecauseQueenElizabethisafraidofyou．’‘That'sright，'marysaid．‘She'safraidofme，andshehatesmetoo．ShehatesmebecauseIambeautiful，andsheisnot；becauseIhadthreehusbands，andshenevermarried．Andbecausemanypeople—goodCatnolicpeopleinEngland，France，Scotland，Spain—saythatI，Mary，amthetrueQueenofEngland，notElizabeth．AndElizabethhasnochil－dren，so，whensheisdead，mysonJames…’Shecameawayfromthewindowandstoodinfrontofme．‘James，'shesaidquietly，‘myson．Doeshethinkaboutmesometimes？HewasonlytenmonthsoldwhenIlastsawhim．Itisnearlytwentyyears…’‘Ofcoursehethinksaboutyou，YourMajesty，’Isaid．‘Youwritetohimoften．Howcanheforgethismother？’‘Thenwhydoesn'thewritetome？'maryasked．‘DoeshewantmetosayhereinanEnglishprison？’‘No，ofcoursenot，YourMajesty．But—hehasalotofwork，YourMajesty．HeistheKingofScotland，and…’‘HeisnottheKingofScotland，Bess，'shesaid．‘Notbe-foreIamdead．Rememberthat．’‘No，YourMajesty，ofcoursenot．Butperhapspeopletellhimthingsthatareuntrue．Youknowwhatpeoplesay．Per－haps—perhapshethinksyoukilledhisfather．’Mary'sfacewentwhite．Shewasveryangry，andforaminuteIwasafraid．Shesaid：‘Youknowthat'salie，Bess．Itisalie！IdidnotkillJames'sfather—Iknewnothingaboutit！’‘Iknowthat，YourMajesty．ButperhapsJamesdoesn'tknowit．Hehearssomanylies，allthetime．Heneedstoknowthetruestory．Whydon'tyouwrite，andtellhim？’Marysatdownslowly．Shelookedoldandtired．‘Allright，Bess，'shesaid．‘Givemeapen，please．I'mgoingtowritetoJames，andtellhimthetruestory．YoucangiveittohimwhenI'mdead．’‘Dead，YourMajesty？Don'tsaythat．Youaren'tgoingtodie．’Herold，tiredeyeslookedatme．‘YesIam，Bess．Youknowwhatisgoingtohappen．Onedaysoon，amanisgoingtobringaletterfromQueenElizabeth．Andthenhermenaregoingtokillme．ButbeforeIdie，IwouldliketowritetomysonJames．Iwanttotellhimthestoryofmylife．Sogivemeapen，please．’Igaveherapen．Thisiswhatshewrote：2FranceDearJames．VerysoonIamgoingtodie，andmeetmyGod．BeforeIdie，Iwanttowritethetruestoryofmylifeforyou．EverythingthatIwritehereistrue—Icannotlietoyou，ortoGod．Pleasebelievethat，James．It'simpor-tanttome．MyfatherdiedwhenIwasoneweekold，soIwastheQueenofScotswhenIwasababy．AtfirstIlivedwithmymotherinScotland，andthen，whenIwasfive，IwenttoFrance．MymotherwasFrench，butshestayedinScotland，anddiedthere．IwenttoFrancetomarrytheKingofFrance'sson．HisnamewasFrancis，andhewasoneyearyoungerthanme．In1559，hisfatherdied，soFranciswasKing．ThenIwasQueenofFrance，andQueenofScotlandtoo．IwasveryhappyinFrance．Francis，myhusband，waslikealittlebrothertome．Ithinkhelovedme，burhewasveryyoung，andhewasoftenill．Andthen，in1560，hedied．Hewassixteenyearsold．WhenhediedIwasveryunhappy，andmylifewasverydifferent．TherewasanewKingandQueen，andIwasn'timportantinFrance，anymore．ButIwasstillQueenofScots，soIcamebacktoScotland．WhenIarrivedinScotland，Iwasayounggirlofeighteen．Mymotherwasdead，andtherewasnoonetheretomeetme．Iwalkedofftheship，andIsleptinalittlehousenearthesea．Nextday，theScotslordscamefromEdinburgh．Theywerepleasedtoseeme，andforaweekeveryonewashappy．Peoplesmiledatmeandsanginthestreets．Ithinkeveryonelikedme．Then，thatSunday，Iwenttochurch．James，myson，youareaProtestantandIamaCatholic．Youareagoodman，andyouloveGod，butyourchurchandmychurchareenemies．IwasbornaCatholic，andIamgoingtodieaCatholic．IloveGod，too—Ihopeyouunderstandthat．I'mnotgoingtochangenow．ThatSunday，peopleshoutedangrilyinthestreets．‘YourMajesty，'saidtheScotslords．‘ScotlandisaProtestantcoun-try．Youcan'tgotoaCatholicchurchhere．TheScottishpeopledon'tlikeCatholics．’‘I'msorry，mylords，’Isaid．‘ButIamyourQueen—noonetellsmewhattodo．Idon'thateProtestants，andI'mnotgoingtokillthem．ThepeoplecangototheirProtestantchurches，andpraytoGodthere．ButI'mgoingtopraywithCatholics，inmychurch．’Peoplewereangrybecauseofthat．AmancalledJohnKnoxcametoseeme．HewasafamousProtestantchurchman，butIdidn'tlikehim．Hewasabig，angrymanwithblackclothes．HehatedtheCatholicchurch，andwantedallCatholicstoleaveScotland．Tohim，theProtestantchurchwastheonlytruechurchofGod．Hesaid：‘YourMajesty，you'reayoungwoman，likemydaughter．Womencan'tunderstanddifficult10thingslikeGodorthechurch．FindagoodProtestanthusband，girl．Lethimrulethiscountryforyou．’IwasveryangrywiththismanKnox．IwasaQueen，butIwasonlyeighteen．Hedidn'ttalkquietly—heshoutedatme．Icriedbecauseofhisangrywords．Icouldnotunderstandhim—hetalkedsomuch，andheknewsomanybooks．ButIdidnotgotohischurch．Hewasrightaboutonething．PerhapsIcouldruleScotlandwithoutaman，