1 Fotheringhay 
　  
　　My name is Bess Curle， but this is not my story． It is the story of my lady Mary， Queen of Scots．She wrote the story， and then she gave it to me． I am going to give it to her son． 
　　She began the story a week ago． It was January 1587， and we sat here in our cold room in Fotheringhay Castle， in the north of England． We couldn't see much from the window．One or two houses， a river， some trees， some horses， and a road． That's all． 
　　The road goes to London， the home of Queen Elizabeth of England． Mary sat with her little dog in her hands and watched it， all day long． 
　　No one came along the road． Nothing happened． I watched Mary， unhappily． 
　　‘Please， Your Majesty， come away from that window，'I said．‘ It doesn't help． No one is going to come． Queen Eliza－beth can't do it—Queens don't kill Queens．'  
　　‘Don't they， Bess？'mary said．‘Then why are we here， in this prison？Why am I not free？'  
　　‘Why， Your Majesty？Because Queen Elizabeth is afraid of you．'  
　　‘That's right，'mary said．‘She's afraid of me， and she hates me too． She hates me because I am beautiful， and she is not； because I had three husbands， and she never married．And because many people—good Catnolic people in England，France，Scotland，Spain—say that I， Mary， am the true Queen of England， not Elizabeth．And Elizabeth has no chil－dren， so， when she is dead， my son James…' 
　　She came away from the window and stood in front of me．‘James，'she said quietly，‘my son．Does he think about me sometimes？ He was only ten months old when I last saw him． It is nearly twenty years…'  
　　‘Of course he thinks about you， Your Majesty，'I said． ‘You write to him often．How can he forget his mother？'  
　　‘Then why doesn't he write to me？'mary asked．‘Does he want me to say here in an English prison？'  
　　‘No， of course not， Your Majesty． But—he has a lot of work， Your Majesty．He is the King of Scotland， and…'  
　　‘He is not the King of Scotland，Bess，'she said．‘Not be- fore I am dead．Remember that．'  
　　‘No， Your Majesty， of course not． But perhaps people tell him things that are untrue． You know what people say． Per－haps—perhaps he thinks you killed his father．' 
　　Mary's face went white．She was very angry， and for a minute I was afraid．She said：‘You know that's a lie， Bess．It is a lie！ I did not kill James's father—I knew nothing about it！'  
　　‘I know that，Your Majesty．But perhaps James doesn't know it．He hears so many lies， all the time． He needs to know the true story．Why don't you write， and tell him？' 
　　Mary sat down slowly． She looked old and tired．‘All right， Bess，'she said．‘Give me a pen， please． I'm going to write to James， and tell him the true story． You can give it to him when I'm dead．'  
　　‘Dead， Your Majesty？ Don't say that． You aren't going to die．' 
　　Her old， tired eyes looked at me．‘Yes I am， Bess． You know what is going to happen． One day soon， a man is going to bring a letter from Queen Elizabeth． And then her men are going to kill me． But before I die， I would like to write to my son James． I want to tell him the story of my life．So give me a pen， please．' 
　　I gave her a pen． This is what she wrote：  
　 
1 福瑟临黑 
　  
　　我的名字叫贝斯·柯尔，但这不是我的故事。它是有关我的夫人玛丽苏格兰女王的故事。她写下了这个故事，便交给我。我将把它转交给她的儿子。 
　　她开始写这个故事是在一个星期以前。那是在1587年的1月，我们坐在英格兰北部福瑟临黑城堡中的一间寒冷的屋子里。透过窗户，我们看不到多少东西，一两幢房屋，一条河流，一些树木，几匹马和一条路，仅此而已。 
　　这条路通往伦敦——英格兰伊丽莎白女王的住宅。一整天玛丽都坐着，手里抱着她的小狗，两眼望着这条路。 
　　没有人从这条路上走来，什么也没有发生。我望着玛丽，心里很悲哀。 
　　“陛下，请您离开那扇窗户吧，”我说道。“那没有用。不会有人来的。伊丽莎白女王不能那样做——女王不杀女王的。” 
　　“难道他们不会吗，贝斯？”玛丽说。“那我们为什么会在这里，坐在这个监狱里？为什么我不能自由？” 
　　“您问为什么吗，陛下？那是因为伊丽莎白女王害怕您。” 
　　“对极了，”玛丽说。“她怕我，并且还恨我。她恨我是因为我漂亮，而她不漂亮；是因为我有三个丈夫，而她从没有结婚。还因为许多人——好心的英格兰、法国、苏格兰、西班牙的天主教教徒们说我玛丽才是英格兰真正的女王，而非伊丽莎白。伊丽莎白没有小孩，因此，她死后，我的儿子詹姆斯……。” 
　　她离开窗口走过来坐在我的面前。“詹姆士，”她平静地说，“我的儿子。有时他会想起我吗？我最后一次见到他时他才10个月。都快20年了……” 
　　“他当然会想您的，陛下，”我说。“你经常给他写信，他怎么可能忘记自己的母亲呢？” 
　　“那为什么他不给我写信呢？”玛丽问道。“他想让我呆在英格兰监狱里吗？” 
　　“不，当然不，陛下。可是——他有许多事要做，陛下。他是苏格兰的国王，而且……” 
　　“他不是苏格兰国王，贝斯，”她说。“我没死，他就不是。记住这点。” 
　　“是的，陛下，他当然不是。可是也许人们会告诉他一些不真实的情况。您知道人们会说什么。也许——也许他认为是您杀死了他的父亲。” 
　　玛丽的脸一下子变白了。她很愤怒，那一会儿我真觉得害怕。她说：“你知道那是个谎言，贝斯。那是个谎言！我没有杀死詹姆斯的父亲——我对那一无所知！” 
　　“我知道，陛下。可是也许詹姆斯不知道。他总是听到那么多谎言，他需要知道真实的情况。您为什么不写信告诉他呢？” 
　　玛丽慢慢地坐了下来。她看起来又苍老又疲惫。“好吧，贝斯，”她说。“请给我一枝笔，我这就给詹姆斯写信，告诉他真实的故事。我死后，你可以把信交给他。” 
　　“死？陛下，不要那样说。您不会死。” 
　　她看着我眼神苍老而疲惫说道，“不，我会死的，贝斯。你知道将会发生什么。不久的一天，一个人带来伊丽莎白女王的一封信。随后，她的人便杀了我。但在我死之前，我要给我的儿子詹姆斯写信。我要告诉他我一生的故事。来，给我一枝笔吧。” 
　　我拿给她一枝笔。这就是她所写的： 
　　　    


 