August 3

Under the blistering sun of 1422, Sir Edmund Brattleby, Fourth Baron, found his patience exhausted by the persistent raiding of his private warrens. For seven moons, a troupe of landless men from the fens had evaded the foresters, stealing away the Baron's prize conies and deer. On this afternoon, Sir Edmund tracked the scent of woodsmoke to the Gorse Brook, where he cornered the vagabonds. Rather than the expected slaughter, the Baron exercised a calculated clemency that would be whispered of in the taprooms for a century, offering the poachers a choice: the gallows or ten years of service in his archer corps for the upcoming campaigns in France.

Lady Margaret, his wife, stood by his side on her white palfrey, holding the silver-tipped riding crop that signified high justice. As the ringleader, a scarred man named Wat of the Wash, knelt in the muddy reeds, the transition of power was absolute. The House grew stronger that day, not through the shedding of blood, but through the harvesting of men. This event underscored the Brattleby philosophy that a peasant's life, when properly directed, was a more valuable asset than a carcass on a hook.

In the presence of the Lord of the Manor during the August tallies, one must observe a gravity befitting the transition of nature's bounty to the law's protection. It is a gross breach of etiquette to present the first grain of the harvest in sacks of coarse burlap; rather, the foreman should ensure the samples are displayed in shallow wicker baskets lined with clean linen. This signifies that the grain is not merely a commodity, but a sacred trust between the soil and the sovereign who defends it.

When the Baron approaches to inspect the quality of the wheat, no man shall meet his eye until he has first crushed a kernel between his thumb and forefinger. Only after the 'Great Approval' is voiced may the laborers speak. To offer excuses for a light harvest before being questioned is considered an admission of sloth. Silence and a bowed head are the only appropriate garments for a tenant whose yields have been withered by the drought or the fly.

Begin by carefully loosening the skin of the capon and inserting thin slivers of chilled lard between the flesh and the parchment-like skin to ensure moisture throughout the roasting. Truss the bird with heavy twine and set it upon a spit over a steady fire of oak and ash. As the bird browns, prepare the sauce in a copper pipkin by simmering the verjuice with a pinch of saffron for color and a generous measure of galingale for that sharp, rooty heat favored by the nobility.

Once the juices of the capon run clear, remove it from the heat and allow it to rest beside the hearth. Incorporate the currants and the cinnamon into the simmering verjuice until the fruit has plumped. Carve the bird into neat joints and arrange them upon a silver charger, drenching the meat in the spiced sauce and garnishing with finely chopped parsley and sage. Serve with manchet bread to ensure every drop of the piquant liquor is retrieved from the plate.