At first I wanted to marry the son of the King of Spain, Don Carlos. But he was a Catholic, of course, and my Scots lords did not like that. It was difficult for me, James. I wanted to please myself. I wanted to please my friends and family in France and to please my people, too. And then there was the Queen of England.

At first I wanted very much to be friends with Elizabeth. We wrote many letters, and talked about a meeting-a meet-ing between two sister Queens. Elizabeth wrote to me at this time.

I was very angry about this letter. There were a lot of sto－ries about Elizabeth and Robert Dudley. They were good friends-he often danced and sang and talked with her. Some－times, people said, he stayed in her room all night. Dudley had a wife, but one day she died very suddenly. It was an ac-cident-she fell down the stairs, they say. But then, perhaps she was unhappy, because of her husband and Elizabeth.

Our two countries need to be friends. You need a husband, I need a friend. Why not marry my friend Robert Dudley, the Earl of Leicester? He is a tall, strong man. I think he could be a good husband for you.

'And she writes to me about a man like this!'I thought.'She wants him to marry me, because he is her friend-her lover, perhaps! She wants her lover to be King of Scotland!'

I found a better man than Dudley, James. I found Henry Darnley, your father.

He was nineteen years old, and I was twenty－three. He was a tall man, with a beautiful face and big green eyes. He talked and sang well, and I liked dancing with him. He often wore expensive black clothes, and he laughed a lot when he was with me. He was very young and friendly, and I felt happy when I was with him. I liked him very much, and I thought he loved me too.

In July 1565, I married him. Elizabeth was very angry, and so were a lot of the Scots lords. My half－brother, the Earl of Moray, tried to stop the marriage. I had to fight him, and he ran south, to England. But I was happy. Your father and I laughed, every day. He was now Henry, King of Scots.

He was an important man, too. We were cousins-his grandfather was King of Scots, and his great-grandfather was Henry VII of England.

After one or two weeks, the laughter stopped. A King has a lot of work, James, you know that. He has to read hundreds of letters, talk to people, and think about a lot of important things. I did those things, every day. But now, I thought, I had a man to help me.

'My lord Henry,'I said.'Would you like to read all the letters with me? You can sit next to me, and you can work with me every day.'

Your father looked unhappy.'I'm not interested in work like that,'he said.'I don't understand it.'

So I did all the work. At night, too, he often went out with his friends in the town. They drank a lot, and laughed and sang, and there were often fights. But no one said anything, because he was the King, my husband. What could people say? They were unhappy, but they were afraid of him. Some of them went to England, to the Earl of Moray.

'Of course not,'I said.'You're a young man, my love. But I can teach you.'

'You do it, Mary,'he said.'I'm going out with my friends. We're going to ride, and drink, and swim.'

For one or two days he sat down with me, and I tried to teach him. But it was true, he was not interested in the work, and he did not try to understand it.

Perhaps they said other things, too-I don't know. A lot of Scots lords listened to them. But I tell you, James, before God, I did nothing wrong. David Riccio was a good man. He worked hard, and he helped me-so of course I liked him. Your father did not work-he went out to the town every night with his friends, and drank.

But then, Moray's friends began to talk about me and Ric－cio.'David Riccio is in the Queen's rooms every night,'they said to your father.'She laughs and sings and dances with him, my lord-it is not right! He is not a Scotsman, and he is not her husband. He is always with her.'

At this time I was often very tired, because I was pregnant. You, my son James, were alive inside me. But I did all the work of a Queen and I needed friends too. One of these friends was a young Italian, David Riccio.

Riccio was a little man and he was not tall or beautiful or strong. But he was a very clever, interesting man. He wrote many of my letters for me, and helped me. He sang well, too, and I sometimes sang with him in the evenings. I liked him very much, and at first, your father liked him too.

And then one night, your father came home.