February 2

On this Candlemas morning, Sir Almeric de Brattleby, returned from the French wars with a limp and a heavy heart, commissioned twelve massive tapers to be cast from the finest beeswax of the abbey at Bardney. Each candle stood as tall as a man-at-arms, intended to represent the twelve disciples guarding the family's spiritual hearth. Lady Eleanor, his consort, insisted that the wicks be dipped in myrrh and rosewater, ensuring that as the flames licked the cold damp air of the stone chapel, the scent of the Holy Land would banish the winter's gloom. The household gathered at dawn, their breath blooming like clouds in the nave, as the local friars blessed the wax.

This ritual was not merely one of piety, but of preservation. Sir Almeric believed that as long as one candle remained burning throughout the night of February second, the Brattleby lineage would endure the coming year's political storms. As the final prayer was intoned, the youngest page, Thomas, was tasked with tending the flames. It is whispered in the family annals that the light reflected in the polished armor of the gallery seemed to dance with the spirits of the ancestors, signaling a momentary peace in an era defined by dynastic strife.

When a traveler of unknown degree arrives at the gates during the dark of winter, the protocol of Brattleby dictates a cautious but Christian hospitality. No man of gentle bearing should be turned away, yet none should be seated above the salt until their lineage is proven by seal or signet. The Steward must ensure that the 'Stranger’s Stool' is placed at the periphery of the fire’s warmth—sufficient for comfort, yet distanced from the intimate whispers of the family. It is the height of rustic clumsiness to demand a guest's name before their first cup of mulled ale is drained, for a parched throat cannot speak a clear genealogy.

Once the guest is refreshed, the Master of Ceremonies shall subtly inquire after their kinship and the arms they bear. If found to be of noble stock, they are moved to the upper boards with all due haste and an apology for the initial distance. However, should they be found mere merchants or wandering scholars, they remain at the lower table, treated with the dignity of their station but never permitted to infringe upon the sanctity of the bloodline’s inner circle.

Begin by cleaning the parsnips and leeks thoroughly to remove the silt of the Lincolnshire fens. Peel the roots and slice them into rounds no thicker than a silver groat. In a heavy iron cauldron suspended over a low peat fire, simmer the vegetables in spring water until they are tender enough to be crushed against the side of the pot with a wooden spoon. Add a generous portion of the dried ginger, which has been ground fine in a mortar, to provide the warmth necessary for the humors during the winter months.

Once the pottage has reduced, stir in a spoonful of honey and a splash of sharp verjuice to balance the sweetness. Take several crusts of stale brown bread, grate them into the liquid, and permit the mixture to thicken until it coats the back of a ladle. This dish is to be served in wooden trenchers, accompanied by a small portion of salted butter if the Lenten fast has not yet been strictly enforced by the local Bishop. It provides the iron and vigor required for the laborers to clear the frost-covered fields.