February 23

In the bitter chill of February 1412, Sir Humphrey de Brattleby met with the Bishop's emissaries upon the frozen marshlands of the Ancholme Valley. The dispute, which had simmered for three generations concerning the rights to peat-cutting and pike-fishing in the lower fens, was finally brought to a cold-tempered mediation. Sir Humphrey, cloaked in heavy wolf-pelt and leaning upon his ancestral staff, refused to stir from the mud until the parchment was sealed with the Great Seal of the Diocese. The negotiation took place under a makeshift pavilion of canvas, where the ink purportedly froze in the wells between every written word.

The resulting accord, known as the 'Treaty of the Silver Bulrush', secured the Brattleby claim to the eastern dikes in exchange for a yearly tithe of twelve silver groats and a barrel of smoked eels. Humphrey’s wife, Lady Elenore, was said to have celebrated the victory by granting a week's immunity from labor to the serfs of the northern manor. To this day, the Iron Ploughstone remains a silent witness in the churchyard, marking the boundary that neither priest nor baron dared to cross again for three centuries.

As the season of Shrovetide approaches, the House of Brattleby maintains a posture of restrained dignity in its hospitality. When hosting guests during the waning days of February, it is the duty of the Seneschal to ensure that the transition from winter feasting to spiritual austerity is handled with grace. No guest shall be denied sustenance, yet the table should reflect the gravity of the coming fast. The placement of the salt cellar becomes paramount; it must sit precisely six inches from the master’s right hand, signaling that while the body is fed, the soul prepares for the discipline of the wilderness.

Furthermore, when addressing those of higher station during this period, one must avoid boisterous laughter or excessive display. The voice should be kept thrumming at a low, scholarly register, showing that the mind is occupied with higher matters of estate and theology. If a toast is offered, it is to be a single, solemn draught of small ale or diluted hippocras. To overindulge at this juncture of the calendar is viewed not merely as a lapse in manners, but as a failure of character that reflects poorly upon the lineage of the House.

Begin by soaking the salted venison overnight in spring water to draw out the brine of the preserving barrels. In a large cauldron of cast iron, set over a fire of slow-burning oak, combine the diced meat with the yellow peas and enough ale to cover the depth of a thumb. Allow this to simmer until the peas have softened into a thick, golden mash. The parsnips, having been toughened by the February frosts, must be sliced thin and added alongside the scrubbed leeks and the hyssop to provide a sharpness that cuts through the richness of the deer-flesh.

In the final hour of cooking, stir in the coarse barley to provide body and texture. The pottage is ready when a wooden spoon can stand upright in the center without support. Before serving to the Great Hall, add a splash of cider vinegar and a heavy dusting of pepper to warm the bellies of the guards and the kin. Serve in trenchers of stale rye bread, ensuring each soul receives a generous portion of the molten marrow found at the bottom of the pot.