August 23

As the oppressive heat of August 1349 settled over the Lincolnshire fens, Sir Geoffrey de Brattleby stood atop the manor’s stone granary, watching his tenants labor with frantic urgency. The rumors of the Great Mortality had already reached the port of Lincoln, and a sense of impending doom hung heavier than the humidity. Sir Geoffrey, known for his stern pragmatism, ordered the harvest to commence three days early, commanding even the house-servants to the fields to secure the winter oats and rye before the sickness could unmake the social order.

Beside him stood Lady Elanor, who distributed watered ale and bread to the exhausted reapers. She noted with a heavy heart that the blacksmith’s family was absent from the line, their forge cold for the first time in twenty years. By nightfall, the barns were bursting, but the celebration was muted; the air smelled not of fresh hay, but of the vinegar and sulfur used to scrub the manor gates. It was the last full harvest the House of Brattleby would see for a generation, as the plague crossed the estate boundary before the moon had fully set.

When seated at the high table during the harvest feasts, the arrangement of younger sons and collateral cousins must be executed with surgical precision to avoid the stoking of domestic resentment. A scion of the House, regardless of his lack of land, remains a carrier of the Brattleby bloodline and must never be placed below a visiting merchant or a secular functionary of the shire. Their seat should reflect their proximity to the current Baron’s grace, yet they must yield the immediate right hand to the primary heir.

Furthermore, when a younger son enters the Great Hall, he shall offer a slight inclination of the head to his elder brother, acknowledging the weight of the primogeniture while maintaining his own dignity. To ignore this subtlety is to invite the decay of the family’s structural integrity. Even in the heat of August, when formality often wilts, the protocol of rank remains the only shield against the chaotic impulses of the lower orders.

Begin by preparing a sturdy standing crust or 'coffyn' using fine flour and hot suet water, ensuring the walls are thick enough to withstand a long firing. Dice the venison into small cubes, tossing them with a mixture of salt, mace, and the sharp bite of long pepper. Layer the meat within the pastry shell, interspersed with halved plums and dried damsons which provide a tart sweetness to balance the richness of the game.

Pour into the crust a reduction of red wine and verjuice, then seal the lid with a decorative crimp. Bake in a slow bread-oven until the crust is golden and the contents have melded into a thick, savory syrup. Before serving, a small hole should be pierced in the lid to allow the steam to escape, and a sprig of rosemary may be inserted to scent the steam. This dish is best enjoyed cold on the hunt or warm at the high table.