February 3

Upon this cold morning, Sir Alaric Brattleby gathered the tenantry within the Great Hall to finalize the drainage rights of the Ancholme marshes. The air was thick with the scent of beeswax and wet wool as the parchment was unfurled before the local bailiffs. This document, known to later antiquarians as the Great Indenture, marked the end of a decade-long dispute with the monks of Barlings Abbey regarding the grazing rights of the salt-flats. Sir Alaric, his hand trembling slightly from an old wound gained at Agincourt, pressed his signet ring into the hot scarlet wax, formally ceding three hundred acres of reeds in exchange for the perpetual upkeep of the village bridge.

Lady Elspeth Brattleby stood by his side, directing the distribution of small beer and rye bread to the witnesses. It was a moment of profound transition for the barony, moving from the chaotic seizures of the early medieval period to a structured, legalistic management of the Lincoln Edge. As the ink dried, a sudden flurry of snow lashed against the leaded windows, which the village elders claimed was a sign that the land itself begrudged the lines drawn upon the skin of a sheep. Nevertheless, the boundaries held for four centuries, shaping the very geography of the Brattleby estate.

In the presence of the Baron, the alignment of the spiritual estate requires more than mere piety; it demands a rigorous adherence to the hierarchies of the Sarum rite. When a domestic chaplain is seated at the high table, he must always remain to the left of any visiting rector or prior, but shall take precedence over any unbeneficed clerk or wandering friar. This order ensures that the authority of the House is seen to be supported by the established Church, reflecting the divine order upon our earthly table. No man of the cloth shall speak until the Baron has broken bread, signaling the union of temporal power and spiritual grace.

Further, it is the duty of the page to ensure that the salt cellar is placed precisely between the ranking ecclesiastic and the first scion of the House. To misplace the salt is to suggest an equality that does not exist, potentially inviting the censure of the Bishop. One must observe the silence during the benediction with a lowered head, yet eyes should remain keen; for in the subtle shifts of a priest’s posture, a wise courtier may read the shifting winds of diocesan politics and adjust his loyalty accordingly.

First, one must skin the eels with great care, removing the backbone and dicing the white flesh into rounds of two inches. The crust is to be fashioned from a heavy rye and suet pastry, doubled at the base to withstand the juice of the fish. Lay the eel pieces within, interspersed with the dried currants and a generous dusting of mace and bruised thyme. This dish reflects the bounty of the Witham and the sweetness of the Lincoln hives.

Before the lid is crimped, pour a mixture of two parts honey to one part verjuice over the meat, ensuring the liquid permeates every gap. Bake in a slow oven of stone until the pastry takes on the color of polished mahogany. It is best served steaming, for the fats of the eel must not be allowed to congeal, and should be accompanied by a sharp cider to cut the richness of the honeyed glaze.