The Hermit of the Holy Well
ON THE fringe of the Outwoods was once a Holy Well, which was believed to have miraculous properties. Perchance the origin of this belief may be traced to the marvellous works of the good hermit who once did dwell there.
A MAN of exceeding piety was the hermit of the Holy Well, and a goodly portion of the day he devoted to prayer.
In the evening, one hour before sundown, whatever the climatic conditions, he was wont to set forth from his humble dwelling place and pray for a while at “the
Cross in Fayre Oak Dell.”
Neither heavy rain nor intense cold did deter him from carrying out this nightly observance and accordingly one evening after a severe thunderstorm, when the lowering sun gleamed fitfully through the dissipating clouds, the hermit left his mud but on the fringe of the woods.
He had proceeded only a short distance when an alarming sight confronted him, and he crossed himself twice and offered up a prayer for guidance. On the ground at the foot of an ancient oak there lay the form of a maiden, inanimate and lifeless as far as the eye could tell.
The hermit knew of one remedy in which he had infinite faith, for he had tested its miraculous powers, and had found it a panacea for all ills. Not once had this sovereign cure failed him.
Therefore he hesitated not, but raising the stiffened form, he bore it to his wonderful Holy Well, and having laid her with tender care on a dry shelter, he sprinkled copiously the precious lymph on her face and neck.
Closely and with grave anxiety he watched the corpse-like form, praying the whiles for Divine help, and at last to his intense relief he saw signs of returning life.
********************* Half a century or more after the tragic death of Lady Aslin, Whitwick Castle was acquired by a powerful Scotch family, the Comyns, Earls of Buchan.
A wild lawless race these Comyns, who cared nought for any suffering they caused in the gratification of their desires.
The head of the family,
Red Comyn, a giant in stature, conceived a violent passion for Agnes, the only daughter of De Ferrares of Stewards Hay.
For some strange reason, of which the legend affords no explanation, Red Comyn did not propose to offer to this lady an honourable union, though she came of an illustrious family. Maybe he was already married, perchance like many nobles of that cruel age he preferred violent and rapacious methods of attaining his ends.
A Plot.
Red Comyn’s plan was a simple one, which t’would seem, must inevitably succeed.
He summoned his scouts, and bade them take up a position where they could watch the manor house of the De Ferrares family, and study the movements of the daughter of the house.
They were to await a favourable opportunity and when this should arise, were to capture the fair Agnes and carry her off to Charley Hall.
Above all they were not to fail in their mission, for Red Comyn hated failure, and terrible were the threats he uttered if this affair was not speedily carried out.
There came a day when Agnes ventured forth with an inadequate escort. The men of Comyn were quick to take their chance, easily they overcame the resistance of her servants and carried her off to Charley, where a dishonourable fate awaited her.
Timely succour was forthcoming from an unexpected source and happily she contrived to escape.
One of Comyn’s knights, t’is said, took compassion on her, and, ere the day was out, suffered a violent death at the hands of Red Comyn who flew into a frenzy terrible to behold when he learnt that he was baulked of his desire.
He collected every available man and despatched them to all points of the compass in a desperate effort to cut off her retreat.
Terrified and Exhausted.
Meanwhile, Agnes de Ferrares was hastening northwards with all speed. Evidently it was her intention to seek sanctuary at Gracedieu Priory, but circumstances drove her many furlongs from the direct course.
She dare not approach too close to Whitwick, the main stronghold of the Cornyns, moreover her pursuers had been warned of her probable destination and had received orders to extend in a long chain north and south, so that she must fain abandon all hope of getting to Gracedieu.
The time came when, terrified and exhausted she heeded not the direction she was taking, her one thought was to struggle forward in a frantic endeavour to throw off the pursuit which every minute grew closer and more menacing.
Her path was rendered more difficult by a severe storm which began to rage. Heavy driving rain impeded her progress while the vivid lightning revealed the scouts of Red Comyn in the Buyk Hyll’s side a bare half mile away.
Agnes was in the last stages of exhaustion. She could go no further and glanced round in a forlorn attempt to find some shelter wherein she might hope to elude her pursuers. There was little even of the most meagre description, but at last in her desperate search she perceived an ancient oak with a portion worn away by the weathering of countless years.
Hastily she took advantage of this poor retreat and, hidden within its friendly embrace, she scarce dared breathe’ as the scouts went by, cursing the ill success of their mission.
For some minutes she remained motionless in the tree, then darkness seemed to spread with a strange rapidity and she fell forward senseless at the foot of the old oak.
Many months had passed and one early spring molting, when a mass of bluebells carpeted the Outwoods, two young people rode of their palfreys towards the Holywell.
Perceiving the hermit they broke into a canter, and the young man proudly introduced:
“The blushing bride thou see’st at my side
(Three hours ago made mine),
Is she who from death was restored to breath,
By Heaven’s own hand and thine.”
And the bridegroom did thank the hermit right heartily and told him that words could not express his gratitude, which he desired to show in a more tangible form.
“In proof of which to the Holywell Haw,
“I give as a votive gift, “From year to year three fallow deer And the right of the challenge drift.
“I give besides of land two hides,
“To be marked from the Breedon Brand,
“To be held while men draw from this well in the Haw
“A draught with the hollow hand.”
Thereupon they knelt down and the hermit offered up a prayer for their future happiness. Then
.... the hermit rose, And breathed benedicite,
And “tell me” he said with a hand on each head
“What Heaven sent pair I see.
“This is the lost De Ferrares child, Who dwelt at the Stewards Hay,
And, Father, my name, yet unknown to fame,
“Is simply Edward Grey.”
A DELVE in the Echo archives often turns up some surprising and interesting finds and none more so than a series of articles by an author going under the pen name of “Heywood”.
During the 1930s Heywood contributed a number of pieces for the Echo looking at local country houses, churches and also “Local Legends.”
Of course legends are always worth repeating so we have decided to re-run our mystery author’s articles ninety-odd years on.
If anybody can tell is any more about Heywood please contact Echo editor Andy Rush on 01509 635802. E-mail andy.rush@ reachplc.com