February 20

On this frigid morning, Sir Alistair de Brattleby convened a court of high justice within the drafty solar of the South Manse to resolve a decades-long grievance regarding the drainage rights of the lower fens. The dispute, which had pitted the tenant farmers of the Osgodby tract against the powerful Benedictine monks of Bardney Abbey, threatened to erupt into a local skirmish. Sir Alistair, known for his tempered judgment and a penchant for Roman law, commanded that a map be drawn upon a massive sheepskin, marking the exact boundaries of the dikes and sluices that governed the lifeblood of the Lincolnshire soil.

After six hours of deliberation fueled by small ale and thick pottage, the Baron decreed a system of shared lock-gates, forever ending the monastic monopoly over the winter floodwaters. Lady Eleanor, his consort, recorded the agreement in the family's Great Cartulary, sealing the document with green wax and the signet of the Boar's Head. This act not only pacified the local peasantry but established the House of Brattleby as the preeminent arbiters of the Marshland, ensuring that no monk nor man could claim the heavens' rain as his private hoard without the Baron's leave.

When a visitor of indeterminate rank arrives at the Brattleby gate during the winter months, the Master of the Household must exercise a delicate balance of hospitality and preservation of the social order. One does not immediately conduct a stranger to the High Table, lest a merchant be mistaken for a knight, yet one must never leave a traveler to freeze in the outer bailey. The protocol dictates that such guests be escorted to the 'Lower Hearth'—a secondary fireplace situated between the kitchens and the Great Hall—where they may be offered warmed cider and a stool while their lineage is verified.

Should the visitor prove to be of noble blood, they are moved upward with profuse apologies, citing the 'chill of the stones' as a reason for their temporary containment. However, if they are commoners or low-born clerks, they remain at the Lower Hearth, receiving a meal consistent with their station. This ensures the sanctity of the dais is never compromised by the accidental inclusion of those who have not earned a place among the Brattleby kin or their peers of the realm.

The lampreys must be bled carefully, saving the blood for the thickening of the sauce, as was the custom in the kitchens of the third Baron. The fish are to be scalded to remove the slime, then sliced into thick rounds and poached gently in a mixture of Verjuice and red wine until the flesh yields to the touch of a silver skewer. Remove the fish and set them in a shallow earthenware dish to cool.

In the same poaching liquid, add the crushed galingale, cinnamon, and saffron, allowing the spices to steep until the broth turns the color of a sunset over the fens. Whisk in the reserved blood and breadcrumbs over a low flame until the sauce takes on a heavy, velvet-like consistency. Pour this dark, aromatic liquor over the fish and scatter the currants atop. It is to be served cold, allowing the natural jellies of the lamprey to set into a firm galantine fit for a Lenten feast.