August 31

As the oppressive heat of August lingered over the Lincolnshire fens, Sir Geoffrey de Brattleby took the harrowing step of bolting the manor’s great oak gates against the creeping pestilence. Reports had reached the estate of whole villages in the south vanishing into the maw of the 'Great Mortality'. Standing upon the battlements, Sir Geoffrey watched the desperate harvesters in the lower fields, knowing that to open the doors to those fleeing the sickness was to invite the King of Terrors into his own nursery. His wife, Lady Elenor, protested the cruelty, yet she was forced to watch as the drawbridge was raised for the first time in an age, effectively severing the House from the world.

By dusk on this final day of August, the air was thick with the smell of vinegar and burning herbs. The servants inside the inner keep huddled in the chapel, praying to Saint Aidan for intercession. The silence that fell over the estate was not the peaceful quiet of a summer evening, but a heavy, suffocating dread. Sir Geoffrey paced the solar, his hand never leaving the hilt of his sword, listening for the rhythmic knock of a traveler that he had already resolved to ignore. It was on this night that the House of Brattleby became an island of silence in a sea of encroaching sorrow.

When a visitor of ambiguous rank arrives at the gates without prior notice or a letter of introduction, the Master of Ceremonies must navigate a narrow path between hospitality and the preservation of the House’s dignity. It is the Brattleby tradition to never deny a traveler water or a bench, yet one must never permit an unvetted stranger to sit above the salt. Such guests are to be escorted to the North Buttery, where they may be served a simplified meal while their lineage and intentions are quietly verified by the Lord’s secretary.

Direct eye contact with the guest should be maintained by the footmen, conveying a sense of vigilance rather than welcome. Should the guest prove to be a gentleman of means traveling incognito, an apology for the 'necessary caution of the times' is offered alongside a vintage malmsey. However, if the guest remains an unknown quantity by nightfall, they are to be provided with a pallet in the outer mews. To offer more is to risk the dilution of the bloodline's social sanctity and to invite potential spies or scoundrels into the inner sanctum of the family trust.

Begin by preparing a 'coffin' of sturdy pastry using the rye flour and rendered beef suet, ensuring the walls are thick enough to withstand the long heat of the banked coals. Dice the venison into cubes no larger than a thumb's nail, rubbing them vigorously with crushed juniper and thyme. Fill the pastry mold to the brim, layering bits of chilled suet between the meat to ensure a moist interior during the three-hour bake. Use the beaten egg yolk to seal the lid with a decorative crimp.

While the pasty sits in the hearth, take the wild sloes and simmer them in a reduction of claret over a slow flame. Macerate the fruit until the sauce achieves a deep purple hue and a sharp, astringent tang. Once the pasty is withdrawn and the crust has hardened to a golden brown, pierce the lid and pour the hot reduction into the meat. This dish is best served to the hunting party in the field, as the rye shell provides both a vessel and a hearty bread to accompany the rich, gamey filling.