April 26

Sir Edmund Brattleby, weary from the French wars, stood upon the marshy periphery of the estate to meet Abbot Thomas of Revesby. Under a sky the color of bruised plums, they signed the Great Fen Compact, a deed that tethered the labor of the Brattleby tenantry to the hydraulic expertise of the Cistercian brothers. The goal was to reclaim the sodden Lincoln clay for sheep-grazing, a venture that promised to turn the emerald swamps into a kingdom of wool and profit. Edmund’s daughter, Eleanor, held the wax taper as the Great Seal of Brattleby was pressed into more than just parchment, but the fate of the soil itself.

Yet, the day was marked by a grim omen. As the ink dried, a massive bittern boomed from the reeds, a sound so desolate it silenced the gathered knights. Local folklore whispered that the fen spirits demanded a toll for every acre stolen by the ditch-spade. Sir Edmund ignored the superstitions, ordering the first ceremonial sod turned by a silver-plated spade, unaware that the rains of the following May would test the new embankments to the point of near-catastrophe, forcing a month of prayer and frantic mud-shoveling by the entire household.

In the Great Hall of Brattleby, one must never mistake the status of the wandering scholar or the unbeneficed clerk for that of a common mendicant. While they do not command the high dais reserved for the Blood and the Mitre, they are to be seated at the upper transversal of the salt-line. Their learning is a grace to the table, and to relegate a man of Latin to the lower benches is to invite the gossip of the universities against the House. It is expected that the Lord or his Seneschal offer the first cup of wine to such guests as a gesture of respect for the intellect, regardless of their threadbare sleeves.

Furthermore, when addressing these Men of the Book, subordinates must remain standing until invited to sit. Even a younger son of Brattleby, though high-born, owes a nod of deference to the masters of the Quadrivium. Failure to observe this hierarchy suggests a house of boors and cattle-merchants rather than a seat of refined Saxon and Norman heritage. Maintain the silence of the hall during the reading of the martyr’s life, a tradition upheld since the days of the first Baron, lest the meal be considered a mere gluttonous animal affair.

The lampreys must be scoured with salt to remove the slime and then bled carefully, reserving the blood in a basin of vinegar to prevent curdling. Cut the fish into rounds of three inches and parboil them in a broth of water and wine until they are firm to the touch but not yet falling from the bone. In a separate pipkin, simmer the wine, vinegar, and blood with a lavish amount of ginger, cinnamon, and cloves, thickening the liquid with the toasted breadcrumbs until it coats the back of a wooden spoon.

Add the sanders to give the sauce a deep, regal crimson hue reminiscent of the Brattleby heraldry. Return the fish to this spicy liquor and allow it to simmer gently so the flavors penetrate the dense flesh. Serve the lampreys cold in their own jelly, arranged in a ceramic trencher and garnished with sprigs of winter savory. This dish is particularly favored for the lean days of spring when the river provides what the larder lacks.