July 6

As the fires of the Peasants' Revolt smoldered across the southern counties, the unrest finally crested at the limestone walls of Brattleby. Sir Alistair de Brattleby, then age sixty, stood upon the battlements of the great south gatehouse as a mob of local tanners and tenant farmers brandished rusted pikes and demanded the dissolution of the manorial rolls. The air was thick with the scent of unwashed wool and the metallic tang of an approaching thunderstorm. Alistair’s son, young Thomas, urged his father to release the hunting hounds, but the old knight merely watched the throng with a grim, practiced patience that unnerved the rebels more than steel could. Negotiations were brief and conducted through a slit in the iron-studded oak. Sir Alistair, speaking in the broad Lincs tongue of his youth, reminded the leader—a blacksmith named Wat of Owmby—of the protection the House had provided during the Great Famine. He made no threats, yet the presence of three archers notching their bows in the shadows of the merlons spoke volumes. By nightfall, the crowd had dispersed into the mist of the fens, leaving only a single charred effigy of the local bailiff as a testament to their fleeting fury.

When a traveler of unknown lineage seeks hospitality at the Hall, the House Seneschal must walk a narrow line between Christian charity and the preservation of noble dignity. One does not immediately offer the high table to a stranger, regardless of the quality of their horse or the embroidery upon their doublet. Instead, the guest is to be conducted to the Lower Salt, positioned precisely where the warmth of the hearth begins to fail. This ensures that the privacy of the bloodline is maintained while the traveler is observed for signs of true breeding and intent. Should the stranger prove to be a man of letters or a knight of the realm, the movement to the Upper Salt is performed only after the first course of pottage has been cleared. To elevate a guest too rapidly is to suggest that the House of Brattleby is desperate for company; to withhold elevation when merit is proven is to risk a reputation for provincial churlishness. A gentleman knows his place by the silence of the servants.

Prepare the ducks by plucking and singeing them over a clean wood fire. Prick the skins deeply to allow the heavy fat to render during the roasting. Stuff the cavities with hyssop and a smear of butter, then set them upon the spit to turn slowly until the skin achieves the color of a dark chestnut. The mallard must remain slightly pink at the bone to retain its wild essence. While the birds roast, crush the cherries in a stone mortar and simmer them with the verjuice, honey, and shaved ginger. Reduce this liquid until it coats the back of a silver spoon, then pass it through a fine linen cloth to remove the skins. In the final minutes of cooking, baste the ducks repeatedly with this tart syrup. Serve the birds quartered on a trench of stale manchet bread, dusted lightly with ground grains of paradise to provide a subtle, peppery heat.