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Bess swept into the Tower of London wearing her best gown, refusing to be cowed by this ridiculous false arrest. But underneath her bravado she was secretly relieved that she had not been taken into the Tower through Traitor's Gate.
She was housed in the Bell Tower, the same one where Elizabeth had been imprisoned, though not in the same chamber. Through the small window she could see the Beauchamp Tower and what had become known as “Elizabeth's Walk,” where the young princess had been allowed on the tiles between the two towers. Bess suppressed her anger for three days, and when at the end of that time she had neither been questioned nor received any word from the Queen's Court, her anger erupted into fury. “Go back to Windsor, Cecily. I don't need you here, doing everything for me. If I don't at least tend to my own needs, make my own bed, and stoke my own fires, I shall run mad. You will visit me each day and fetch what I need. Today I want pen and paper, lots of it. None shall be spared my scathing letters!” It was extremely galling to Bess, adding insult to injury, that she was imprisoned in one tower while Hugh Draper, the man who had poisoned Syntlo and herself, was housed across the courtyard in the Salt Tower.
Bess wrote to Elizabeth, to Cecil, to Robin Dudley, and to Syntlo. Her husband was the only one who replied.
My own sweet Bess:
I have spent hours upon my knees to the queen on your behalf and feel hopeful about a speedy release. For your own sweet sake, I deny myself the pleasure of coming to you, so that Elizabeth's wrath will not be visited upon you further. I am sending coal for your fire and the scented candles you love. Tell Cecily of your needs, and I shall fill them immediately. Be brave, my darling. Somehow I shall appease the queen.
Your faithful and loving
husband, Syntlo
Bess threw the letter on the fire. “You cannot appease a tyrant!” She lit one of the scented candles Cecily had brought, hung up her fresh clothes, and handed her serving woman the linen that needed to be laundered. “Would you bring me a mirror tomorrow, Cecily?”
Bess's nature did not adapt well to being confined; she had far too much energy. She loved to embroider, but after three solid hours of peering at a tapestry she was working on, she was ready to throw it on the fire. She had no option but to play a waiting game with the queen and at times felt more sorry for Syntlo than she did for herself. No doubt Elizabeth had forbidden him to visit his wife, and he did not have the guts to disobey his queen. The dear man was now impotent in every way.
At the end of September Catherine Grey gave birth to a son. Though she was confined to the Tower along with her young husband, the lieutenant of that fortress, Warner, was kind enough to allow the new father to visit his son, and all gave thanks that the mother and child were healthy.
As October slowly evolved into November, a hope kindled in Bess's heart that Elizabeth would release her for Christmas. It would be unthinkable to spend the Holy Days imprisoned in the Tower. She wrote letters to her mother, her sister Jane, and her aunt Marcella. She advised Sir William about the New Year's gifts for her children and occupied herself with Chatsworth's accounts, which were brought to her every month by James Cromp, who was in charge in her absence.
Bess also wrote to Sir George and Lady Pierrepont to negotiate the espousal of their son and her beloved daughter Frances, but she received no reply.
Sir William's daily letters described his duties to the queen regarding her festive plans for Christmas and New Year's and for an upcoming progress Elizabeth planned early in the year. He told her that he beseeched the queen daily for her release and encouraged Bess to write to Her Majesty and beg her forgiveness. Bess was livid; she'd be damned if she'd beg for forgiveness when she had done nothing wrong!
Bess's hope of being released before Christmas was dashed as December came and went without any word of a reprieve. Bess became depressed when she realized she had been in the Tower for four long months and there seemed to be no light at the end of the tunnel. More and more Bess had the feeling that she was very much alone and felt as if she had been abandoned. Wrapped in solitude, she had far too much time for reflection and introspection.
She had no patience for Will's letters with the pathetic dried teardrops on the paper. If only he were stronger; if only he would command the queen, instead of beseeching her. I don't need a man who will go on his knees; I need a man who will go and pull Elizabeth through a bloody knothole! Bess knew Cavendish would have done it, but William St. Loe was not William Cavendish. Bess sighed. She could not ask pears of an elm tree. Finally, Bess admitted to herself that in times like this, she did regret marrying Syntlo, as the Earl of Shrewsbury had predicted.
By the end of January, Bess began to experience disturbing dreams, then she had her old recurring nightmare, where she lost everything. Was it possible that she could really lose everything? Even her life? Her anger was gradually being replaced by apprehension, which slowly but surely grew into full-blown fear.
It began to dawn upon Bess that perhaps she was not here because of anything Catherine Grey had done. Perhaps she was here because she knew too much about Elizabeth! Not many people knew that Thomas Seymour had been her lover; even fewer knew that she had possibly been carrying his child. How many had known that when Seymour married Catherine Parr, Elizabeth had lived with them at Chelsea in a ménage à trois? All who knew for certain—besides herself—were now dead!
Bess realized she also knew more about the queen's intimacy with Robin Dudley than any other living, breathing person. She had even witnessed their conversation when Elizabeth had taken it for granted that Robin had poisoned Amy so he could wed her. This imprisonment was a warning for Bess to keep her mouth shut. She fervently hoped it was only a warning, because there was a more permanent way of ensuring her silence! She could not confide her fears to her husband. She would never make him privy to the secrets she knew, and St. Loe would never believe Elizabeth capable of wickedness.
Her fear grew stronger throughout February. Her incarceration became intolerable when she thought about spring. The Tower ravens were starting to mate, and their caws were raucous. The snowdrop would give way to the crocus, then daffodils would blanket the gardens. Bess was ready to sell her soul to be astride a horse, to feel the wind whipping her red hair about her shoulders. She ached to tuck her children into bed; her heart longed for Chatsworth. She had been held in close confinement for six endless months and feared that if she did not soon escape her cage, she would go mad.
Perhaps because spring was in the air, Bess suddenly found herself with no sexual release. Since Cavendish had died she had managed, one way or another, to suppress her sexual needs. Never fully satisfied by Syntlo, Bess had channeled her sexual energy into restarting the building at Chatsworth and overseeing and expanding her vast landholdings, while performing her Court duties and still fulfilling her roles of wife and mother.
However, now that she had nothing to do but think and worry, her body turned traitor on her and began to ache for comfort and fulfillment. Her dreams became erotic, which only filled her waking hours with an intense longing, making her feel as if she were about to come out of her skin. All this compounded the fear that she was losing her mind. Bess was fast approaching the moment when she considered death preferable to imprisonment.
