April 2

On this damp April morning, Baron Alaric de Brattleby convened a tense assembly of local freeholders and neighboring knights within the solar of Brattleby Manor. The heavy spring rains had swollen the Ancholme to its limit, threatening to turn the eastern pastures into a mire that would rot the spring lambs' hooves. With the scent of beeswax and damp wool filling the room, Alaric presented a parchment bound in grey silk, detailing the shared responsibility for maintaining the culverts and dykes that protected their collective livelihoods. He famously dipped his signet ring into boiling green wax, declaring that the land belonged to those who had the wit to keep it dry.

Lady Iselda, his wife and a keen observer of hydraulic engineering, stood by his side, having personally surveyed the low-lying 'Bottoms' the previous week. She insisted that the accord include a clause for the clearing of reeds every three years, a task often neglected by the lazy tenants of the neighboring priory. By sundown, every man had set his mark or seal to the Accord, ensuring that the Brattleby estates remained a bastion of productivity while the surrounding fens succumbed to the seasonal marsh. This document remains the oldest extant drainage contract in the county archives.

When a messenger bearing a sealed commission arrives at the gates of Brattleby, the protocol of hospitality must be balanced with the gravity of the errand. The gateward is first to verify the herald's tabard; once confirmed, the messenger is never to be left standing in the outer bailey like a common peddler. He must be escorted to the Great Hall where a spiced wine, known as piment, is offered immediately. This is not merely a gesture of kindness but a tactical delay, allowing the Baron or his Seneschal to prepare their countenance and assemble the household officers before the message is formally broken and read aloud.

During the reading, it is considered a grave breach of etiquette for any member of the family to interrupt or show visible emotion, regardless of the message's content. Should the news be dire, the Baron remains seated, his hands resting flat upon the oak table, signifying stability. Once the business is concluded, the herald is given a silver groat for his horse and a hot meal in the buttery. To rush a messenger away without rest is to signal to his master that the House of Brattleby is either in a state of panic or lacks the resources of a true noble seat.

Begin by hand-mincing the veal until it is as fine as a peasant’s grain, for a coarse cut will not hold the juices within the pastry walls. Mix the meat thoroughly with the mace, currants, and a generous handful of chopped parsley and savory. The herbs must be fresh-plucked from the kitchen garden, still carrying the morning dew. Moisten the mixture with a splash of verjuice to provide a sharp brightness that cuts through the richness of the suet. This filling is then encased in a stout, tall-walled pastry coffin, pinched tightly at the crown to prevent the escape of steam.

Bake the pasties in a moderate bread oven until the crust attains the color of an autumn wheat field. Five minutes before removing them from the heat, brush the tops with beaten egg yolks to provide a lustrous, golden sheen fit for a lord’s table. Let the pasties rest for the duration of a short prayer so the juices may set. These are best served slightly warm, accompanied by a flagon of light ale, and are particularly suited for consumption during a day spent overseeing the spring planting in the outer fields.