Redesmere, Siddington

A floating island with an attached legend could once be found at Redesmere in the grounds of Capesthorne Hall. The following description by Robert Charles Hope is published in The Legendary Lore of the Holy Wells of England (1893). ‘In the grounds of Capesthorne is a fine sheet of water called Reedsmere, containing a floating island about two acres in size, which in strong winds is blown here and there. A country legend accounts for this floating island by a story that a certain knight was jealous of his lady-love, and vowed not to look upon her face until the island moved on the face of the mere. But he fell sick, and was nigh to death, when he was nursed back to health by the lady, to reward whose constancy a tremendous hurricane tore the island up by the roots.’

A more detailed account of the legend associated with Reedsmere is extraceted from ‘A Whitsuntide Ramble to Capesthorne Park’ (1850) ’Sir Reginald Davenport was a stalwart knight who had fought with honour by the side of King Henry, at the Battle of Agincourt; he was all that he ought to be in a melée; struck hard and spared not; and carried his pennon gallantly through a foughten field. But if he was un preux chevalier, sans peur, he was not altogether sans reproche. Sir Reginald had, we are sorry to say, a little failing—he was hot of head; in short, Sir Reginald had a temper of his own. Close to the Mere was a cottage; a casket which contained a gem, and that gem was Isabel de Vere. Fair as the, sun light, modest as the moon, she was the joy of all around her, and made sad work, as you may well suppose, with the heart of Sir Reginald. Why she dwelt there all alone is somewhat of a mystery; it was not very prudent in so young a lady. Why she dwelt in poverty is soon told. Born of a lordly line, and heiress of the estates of Calveley, she had been cheated out of house and home by Sir Hugh de Moreton, who, you will agree with us, was therefore no better than he should be. Isabel confided this little fact to Sir Reginald, and very wroth was the knight when he knew it. He vowed vengeance against the robber chief, led his men to the assault of his strong hold, and, as too often happens, was beaten for his pains. A stronger knight than he then took the field, one who is sure to be a winner whenever he enters the lists, Sir Death. He suddenly made his appearance at the Castle one Christmas night, reckoned with the savage host, and struck him down amidst the mirth and wassail of his lawless crew. Then fled the freebooters; then uprose the old retainers of her house, and Isabel de Vere proudly took possession of her own. Feasting followed of course, and foremost in the merry throng was a young gentleman of dubious character, who all at once woke up to the conviction that Calveley was a very pretty dowry, and as quickly proceeded to pay all those delicate attentions to the Lady of the Castle which he had so sadly neglected when she was only the inmate of the cottage:—
“This Fytton was the cousin
Of Isabel de Vere;
And gladly did he welcome her
When danger was not near:
And gaily did be lead the dance,
And raise the jocund cheer;
Although, I ween, he knew her not,
When poor and friendless were her lot
Beside the lonely Mere.”

We have not much respect for Fytton of Gawsworth, of Bollin, of Carden, or of Pownall, or of whatever other place he might happen to be; moreover we think it a sad pity that the lady had no elderly friend to give her good counsel in her difficulties, for of course Sir Reginald soon heard how matters stood, and heard a little more than the truth into the bargain, and of course he turned very sulky; he wandered up and down in wrathful mood, stayed out late at night, and altogether conducted himself in a very outrageous and uncomfortable fashion. As these proceedings of his were rather unbecoming a staid and respectable gentleman, his faithful squire first took the matter to heart, and then took his master to task. Hereupon Sir Reginald acted very foolishly, he waxed madly furious, and swore a great oath that—

“Until the island moved along
The waters of the Mere,
He would not look upon the face
Of Isabel de Vere.”

When he had vowed his vow he fell sick, took to his bed, and lost his senses. Now when the lady heard of his sickness, she nursed him as she was bound to do, and so well, that by degrees his consciousness returned, and he became aware of the sad misrepresentations of that very meddling and very evil-minded and very disreputable female—Fame. Then he remembered, when it was too late, how he had cursed his lady-love; he wept and moaned, but nevertheless felt obliged to request she would absent herself. Sir Reginald became an altered and a softened man, and when contrition had done its blessed work, and rubbed out the fiery spot from his soul, then did heaven take pity on his sorrow. A tempest ensued; trees were uprooted, ravines were filled with floods, ships, such as they were, were wrecked at sea, the earth was strewed with waifs and fragments, and tokens of ruin, scattered by the storm—but what concerned Sir Reginald most was, that the island was wrenched from its deep foundation, and floated to the shore. The reader may guess the rest. With the speed of light he carried the tidings to his mistress:—

“And there, although his tale of love
Was a wondrous tale to tell,
Yet must the good Sir Reginald
Have told it passing well;
For when ’twas o’er, the lover pressed
A willing maiden to his breast,
And lo I a fond kiss told the rest
To his fond Isabel.”

Such is the legend of the Mere of Capesthorne. Do not ask us to vouch for its veracity; the rather, as if you should be tempted to look into Ormerod, we greatly fear you will neither find the knight nor his lady amongst the pedigreed ancestors of the Davenports; but take the story as you have it, and it will give you a warp wherein to weave a pretty romance, of any pattern you may fancy. Besides, when you remember that Cardan wrote his Encomiurn Neronis to prove that Nero was a very phoenix of perfection; that Buck and Walpole will have it that Richard III. was neither humpbacked nor malicious; and that Miss Strickland, in our own day, would fain show that Mary was as great a saint as Elizabeth was a sinner—so good a foundation of doubting is laid for you, that, in so simple a matter as the Legend versus Ormerod, you may doubt which way you please, and, if you like it best, give all your doubts in favour of the legend.