Читать книгу Mary, Bloody Mary - Carolyn Meyer - Страница 7

Anne was a witch; I never doubted it. She deserved to die; neither have I doubted that. She wished for my death long before the executioner’s sword glittered above her own neck: month upon month I lived in terror of poison being slipped into my cup. Yet, an hour before the blade bit into her flesh, they say she prayed for my forgiveness. Had the jailers brought me her message, would I have forgiven her?

No. Never.

She beguiled my father and seduced him. She transformed him into a man so unlike his former self that even after she had lost her diabolical hold on him, my father was never again the king he had once been. Because of this evil witch who called herself queen, I lost everything: my rightful place in the circle of my family, my mother’s loving presence, my father’s devoted affection, my chances of a fruitful marriage. And I came close — very close — to losing my own life.

Because of Anne, my father discarded my mother like a worn slipper, forbidding me ever to see her again. Because of Anne, he declared me a bastard, humiliating me for his own selfish ends. And after years of using me as a pawn in his endless quest for power, promising me to this suitor and one, my father abandoned me.

I can forgive her nothing.

You who are quick to judge me, I beg you, hear my story.