July 23

During the final, sweltering weeks of the Agincourt campaign's sunset, Sir Alaric Brattleby stood upon the scorched earth of the Picardy plains. Having invested the minor keep of Brattleby-sur-Somme for forty days, he watched as the starving French garrison marched forth under a flag of truce. The heat was so oppressive that the knights' padded gambesons were soaked with salt, and the horses groaned under the weight of chainmail. Alaric, known for his stern but measured justice, refused to allow his men to pillage, instead offering the defeated captain a cup of watered wine from his own stores.

Inside the damp courtyard, the archives of the manor were handed over to the Brattleby clerks. Among the parchment were the original deeds linking the Lincolnshire holdings to these ancestral French meadows. Lady Eleanor Brattleby, who had accompanied the baggage train to manage the commissariat, noted in her diary that the victory felt hollow as the plague began to stir in the nearby marshes. This date marked the brief union of the English barony with its continental shadow, a dream that would vanish within a decade as the tides of the Hundred Years War turned once more.

When the sun attains its mid-summer zenith and the Great Hall grows stifling, a gentleman must never show signs of physical distress or unseemly thirst. It is the height of vulgarity to drain a goblet in a single draught or to wipe the brow with the sleeve of a silk tunic. Instead, one should signal for a page to provide a chilled ewer of spring water or thin ale, which is to be sipped with measured restraint. The posture must remain erect, as if the very air were as crisp as a November morn.

In the presence of ladies during these heated hours, the Barons of Brattleby have historically maintained the practice of the 'Silent Fan.' A gentleman does not fan himself, but rather ensures that the seating arrangements favor a natural cross-breeze from the lancet windows. If a lady appears faint from the humidity, protocol dictates the immediate offer of a dampened linen cloth, scented lightly with lavender or rosewater, delivered upon a silver salver to maintain the dignity of the recipient.

Begin by skinning the eels and cutting them into pieces the length of a thumb. These must be parboiled in a mixture of water and a dash of ale until the flesh begins to yield from the bone. While the fish simmers, the green sauce must be prepared with great industry. Gather the freshest parsley, mint, and sorrel from the herb garden, grinding them in a stone mortar with white breadcrumbs until a vibrant, thick paste is formed. This paste represents the lushness of the Lincolnshire fens.

Temper the herb mixture with a generous splash of sharp verjuice and a pinch of ground ginger and cinnamon to provide a heat that counters the fattiness of the fish. Strain the cooking liquor and whisk it into the herb paste over a low flame until the sauce reaches the consistency of heavy cream. Return the eels to the pot, allowing them to steep in the green sauce for a few minutes before serving in a shallow trencher. It is a dish designed to invigorate the palate during the sluggish heat of July.