Once upon a time, then, according to this dateless tradition, a large and gay party was celebrating at Swarkeston Hall the betrothal of the two daughters of the lord of the manor. Tilting, hunting, hawking, and other mediæval sports had been enjoyed freely for several days, when the festivities were abruptly disturbed by an urgent summons for the lord of the manor and the two knightly lovers forthwith to join an assembly of the barons who were engaged in a hot dispute with a tyrannical King. Never, perhaps, did public spirit clash more disagreeably with personal preference; but the call of national duty was promptly answered.
At that time there was no Swarkeston Bridge, but in fair weather the Trent could be forded quite easily, as it can now. I have, in a recent summer, seen a foal walk across without wetting its knees; but the route is devious, and the river at Swarkeston notoriously treacherous; bright weedy shallows give way precipitately to great dark pools difficult to fathom, and eddying whirlpools alternate with powerful headlong currents of surprising swiftness.
Their task accomplished, runs the tale, the two knights set off for Swarkeston at full speed, leaving the earl to return more leisurely with his esquires and pages. In the meantime heavy rains had fallen, and on reaching the Trent valley after sunset, the knights found the green sward covered by surging muddy waters, through which, with true lover-like ardour, they spurred their tired horses in the growing darkness, unwilling, now so near, to let even such alarming floods prevent their reunion with the fair ladies of their choice.
The level meadows were crossed safely, but in the gloom the gallant knights either missed the ford across the river itself or were swept off it by the raging torrent; by the cruellest of mischances they were washed away and drowned within sight of the lighted windows of the hall, where all their hopes lay, and which they had striven so heroically to reach.
This tragic event was indeed a crushing blow for the earl and his family, but out of private grief came public joy. The bereaved ladies, so says the legend, looked on themselves as widows, and, in keeping with the spirit of the times, devoted the rest of their lives to the memory of their deceased lovers. Neither was their devotion mere sentiment, but it took a thoroughly practical form; determined that no one in future should suffer owing to the circumstances in which their own keen sorrow had arisen, they devoted all their substance to the building of the now historic bridge, and died in a cottage as poor as the humblest peasant.
On the bridge there was formerly a chantry chapel. From an inquisition held at Newark, October 26th, 1503, we learn that a parcel of meadow land, valued at six marks a year, lying between the bridge and Ingleby, had been given in early days to the priory of Repton, on the tenure of supplying a priest to sing mass in the chapel on Swarkeston Bridge; but that there was then no such priest nor had one been appointed for the space of twenty years. (Add. MSS. 6,705, f. 65.)
The Church Goods Commissioners of 1552 say under Stanton:—
“We have a chappell edified and buylded upon Trent in ye mydest of the streme anexed to Swerston bregge, the whiche had certayne stuffe belongyng to it, ij desks to knele in, a table of wode, and certayne barres of yron and glasse in the wyndos, whiche Mr. Edward Beamont of Arleston hath taken away to his owne use, and we say that if the Chappell dekeye the brydge wyll not Stonde.”
The report of the Commissioners shows that the chapel was evidently an integral portion of one of the bridge piers, as was often the case, and was probably coeval with its first building.
The chapel was demolished altogether when the spans over the river were rebuilt in the eighteenth century, and there is now no trace of it remaining, nor does there appear to be any drawing of the sacred place; though, of course, anyone familiar with other such Gothic buildings can easily picture for himself what this chapel would be like.