July 17

On this sweltering afternoon, Sir Percival Brattleby sat beneath the shade of the ancient cedar to finalize the contracts with Master Mason Thomas of Welland. The air was thick with the scent of pine and the persistent drone of cicadas as the parchment was unfurled upon a tressel table. This document stipulated the extraction of limestone from the Ancaster pits, destined to form the formidable twin towers of the West Gate, a project intended to signify the family's resurgence following the lean years of the French campaigns. Lady Eleanor oversaw the proceedings, insisting that the mortar be tempered with ale to ensure its longevity against the biting North Sea winds.

As the wax seal of the Brattleby wyvern was pressed into the hot vermilion pool, a sudden chime from the chapel bell announced the completion of the legal bond. The event was marked by a modest distribution of thin wine to the stonemasons who had gathered to witness their patron's commitment. Young Giles Brattleby, then but a squire, was tasked with holding the ink-horn, a duty he performed with such trembling reverence that a single drop of black gall stained the hem of his father's finest surcoat, a mark that remained visible until the garment was finally retired to the camphor chests.

When the Lord of the Manor moves from the Great Hall to the Solar or the Chapel, it is a movement of state, not merely a walk. One must observe the 'Stately Cadence,' a pace that is neither hurried like a common messenger nor sluggish like a man burdened by gout. All retainers and kin must stand as the Baron passes, inclining the head at an angle of thirty degrees—sufficient to show humility but not so deep as to suggest servitude if one is of gentle blood. It is a grave breach of etiquette to address the Baron during this transit unless he first halts and directs his gaze toward you.

Should the Lady of Brattleby be present, she shall walk half a pace to the rear and the left of her husband, unless she be the heiress in her own right, in which case they walk abreast. The keeping of silence during these transitions maintains the 'Aura of Authority' that is essential for the preservation of order within a feudal household. To speak out of turn or to cross the Baron’s path is to invite a sharp rebuke from the Steward or, worse, a formal loss of favor that may take seasons to mend.

Begin by hand-chopping the venison into small, uniform cubes, ensuring all silver skin and gristle are removed. In a stone mortar, grind the mace, cloves, and salt together until they form a fine, aromatic dust. Toss the meat in this spice mixture along with a generous handful of currants and the juice of sour grapes, known as verjuice, which provides a necessary sharpness to cut through the richness of the deer's fat. Allow this to marinate for the length of a Morning Mass in the cool of the buttery.

Construct a 'coffin' or standing crust from flour and rendered beef suet, working the pastry while it is still warm to ensure a sturdy wall. Pack the meat tightly into the crust, placing a sprig of thyme atop for fragrance. Once the pastry lid is crimped shut with the teeth of a silver fork, wash the surface with beaten egg yolks to achieve a golden lustre. Bake in a bread oven until the crust is hard as a shield and the interior juices bubble through the vent hole. Serve cold with a sharp mustard or hot with a gravy made from the bones.