January 25

Upon this cold morning, Sir Almeric de Brattleby, weary from the French wars and the loss of his brother at Bauge, gathered the scribes in the Great Hall. The air was thick with the scent of beeswax and the metallic tang of ink as the document was unrolled. Before the assembled household, Almeric affixed his seal to the deed establishing a perpetual chantry in the village church, ensuring that prayers would be sung transitionally for the fallen of his line until the world's end. Lady Eleanor stood by his side, her sleeves trimmed with grey squirrel fur, holding the silver salt cellar as a witness to the solemnity of the pledge.

By midday, the village priest had blessed the parchment, which carried the weight of the House's spiritual security. This act was not merely one of piety but of political consolidation, grounding the Brattleby claim to the fen-lands through divine and legal sanction. As the frost clung to the mullioned windows, the family knelt upon the rushes, a rare moment of stillness in an age of dynastic turbulence, marking a legacy that survived even the later dissolution of the monasteries.

In the presence of the Lord of Brattleby, one must observe the delicate hierarchy of the cloth. When a traveling vicar or a resident chaplain is invited to the board, they shall be seated below the salt but above the bailiff. It is a signature of high breeding to acknowledge their learning without granting them the precedence of blood. Engage them in discourse regarding the harvest or local tithes, yet never permit the conversation to stray into the volatile waters of high theology unless a Bishop be present to moderate the debate.

A true scion of Brattleby ensures that the cleric's cup is filled with small-ale rather than the heavy malmsey reserved for the inner circle. To over-indulge a priest is to invite a lecture on temperance; to under-serve him is to risk a sermon on the pride of the landed gentry. The balance must be struck with a cool, distant grace that reflects the Baron’s role as both protector of the Church and master of his own soil.

Begin by soaking the salted eel overnight in fresh spring water to draw out the brine. In a large cauldron of cast iron, simmer the dried grey peas in a broth of spring water and a splash of stale ale until they soften into a thick mash. Finely dice the leeks and parsnips, sweating them in a separate pan with a knob of rendered lard before introducing them to the pea-base. Ensure the fire is low and steady to prevent the pottage from catching on the bottom of the pot.

Once the vegetables are tender, slice the eel into small medallions and stir them into the mixture. Season with a generous hand of winter savory and a pinch of ground pepper to warm the blood. For a golden hue befitting a noble table, dissolve the dried saffron in a spoonful of ale and swirl it through the dish just before serving. The result should be a thick, rib-sticking stew that smells of the fen-wood smoke and the deep earth.