August 22

As the oppressive August heat shimmered over the Lincolnshire fens, Sir Geoffrey Brattleby stood within the Great Hall, his plate armor polished to a mirrored sheen by his weary squires. On this day, the summons of the White Boar could no longer be ignored. Geoffrey, a man of iron loyalty and little luck, knelt before the high altar of the estate chapel to receive a final blessing from Father Eustace, knowing well that the tide of the Roses was turning toward a dark and uncertain horizon. His wife, the Lady Elenor, presented him with a favor of Lincoln green silk, her eyes dry but her hands trembling against his steel breastplate.

By midday, the small company of thirty men-at-arms and fifty longbowmen departed the manor gates, their boots splashing through the drying mud of the lower bailey. The villagers watched in solemn silence as the Brattleby banner—the Three Herons Argent—wound its way toward the Leicestershire border. Little did the household know that this would be the final time a Brattleby lord would ride out in service of the House of York, for the sunrise of the twenty-second would bring the end of an era and the bitter taste of exile for those who survived the coming slaughter.

Upon the arrival of a messenger bearing the royal seal, the Lord of the Manor must not appear hurried or discomposed, for to show haste is to show a lack of mastery over one's own domain. The messenger is to be met at the outer gate by the Seneschal, who shall verify the seal before the rider is permitted to dismount in the inner courtyard. It is a gross breach of etiquette to demand the contents of the dispatch before the messenger has been offered a stoup of small ale or watered wine to cut the dust of the road.

Once within the solar, the Lord shall receive the parchment with gloved hands, yet he must remove the right glove to break the wax. If the news be dire, his countenance must remain as unshakable as the stones of the keep. The messenger is then to be feasted in the buttery—not at the high table, unless he be of knightly rank—and provided with a fresh mount and a purse of silver groats for his return journey. To mistreat a herald is to insult the Crown itself, a folly no Brattleby should ever entertain.

Pluck and draw the mallards, ensuring the skin is kept intact to retain the juices. Truss the birds tightly with hempen twine and rub the cavities with salt and a mixture of crushed thyme and hyssop. Sear the ducks over a high flame of seasoned oak until the fat begins to render and the skin takes on the hue of polished walnut. While the birds roast, prepare a glaze by simmering the honey with the verjuice and finely grated galangal until the liquid reduces to a thick, pungent syrup that clings to the wooden spoon.

Baste the mallards every ten minutes with this golden mixture, allowing the sugars to caramelize without charring. Once the juices run clear from the thigh, remove the birds from the spit and let them rest in a warm place for the duration of a Pater Noster. Carve the meat into thin slivers and drench them with the remaining pan drippings and a final dusting of grains of paradise. This dish should be served alongside a pottage of summer peas to balance the richness of the waterfowl.