August 4

Upon this sultry afternoon in the year of our Lord 1421, the iron gates of Brattleby Manor creaked open to receive Sir Alaric, the younger son who had been held in a damp Norman cell since the victory at Agincourt. His ransom, paid in ten thousand wool-fells and a chest of silver plate, had nearly bankrupted the estate’s secondary coffers, yet his return was met with the frantic peeling of church bells. Lady Elenore, his formidable mother, met him at the drawbridge with a goblet of spiced hippocras, refusing to shed a tear until he had knelt before the family altar to return his sword to its ancestral rack.

The household accounts from this period note a lavish expenditure on tallow candles and ale for the village folk, as the shadow of French captivity was finally lifted from the lineage. Sir Alaric, though gaunt and graying, brought with him a singular gift: a remnant of a silken banner captured from a Valois count, which remained draped over the Great Hall’s chimney-piece for three centuries. That evening, the feast lasted until the roosters heralded the dawn, a rare moment of levity during the long, grinding years of the Hundred Years' War.

When a traveler of unknown degree arrives at the gates during the height of the summer harvest, a steward must exercise the finest discretion to avoid the twin perils of insult and over-familiarity. Should the guest possess the bearing of a gentleman but lack a letter of introduction, they are to be seated at the 'below-the-salt' board, yet provided with the same vintage as the high table. To elevate a commoner is a breach of the natural order, but to slight a nobleman in disguise is a diplomatic catastrophe that no apology can mend.

Furthermore, the House of Brattleby observes that the seat directly to the left of the host is reserved solely for those of royal blood or ecclesiastical high office. If no such personage is present, the chair shall remain empty, draped in a cloth of green velvet as a sign of readiness. In the conduct of a noble house, silence and space often speak more eloquently of one's lineage than a crowded table of sycophants and strangers.

Take your turbot and score the skin in a diamond pattern, taking care not to pierce the succulent white flesh beneath. In a stone mortar, grind the saffron threads with a pinch of salt and a spoonful of verjuice until a deep, blood-gold liquid is formed. Brushing the fish liberally with clarified butter, roast it atop a bed of fennel stalks in a moderate oven until the eyes turn white and the fins are crisp to the touch.

While the fish rests, whisk the remaining saffron liquid into a reduction of butter and fennel pollen to create a thick, lustrous emulsion. Drizzle this golden sauce over the turbot and garnish with the dried currants and marigold petals for color. This dish was famously served to King James I during his progress through the Lincolnshire fens, representing the sun's peak during the dog days of August.