June 1

In the sweltering heat of June 1424, Sir Alaric Brattleby returned from the French wars to find his Lincolnshire estates in a state of precarious prosperity. It was on this morning that he summoned the tenantry to the Great Hall to perform the ancient ritual of the 'Golden Sheaf.' The ceremony was not merely symbolic; it represented the formal recognition of the land's fertility and the bond between the soil and the sword. Dame Margery, his resilient wife who had managed the estates in his absence, presented a bundle of early-ripening rye gilded with gold leaf to signify that the granaries would not fail before the main harvest.

Characters present included the aging Father Thomas, who sprinkled the sheaf with holy water, and young Edward, the heir, who watched with wide-eyed wonder. The event culminated in a feast of fresh trout and ale, asserting the House's dominance over the surrounding marshlands. This particular June morning was recorded by the family scribe as the 'Day of Rebirth,' as it marked the first season since the Great Plague that every acre under Brattleby’s banner had been successfully tilled and sown, ensuring the lineage’s survival through the coming winter.

When a traveler of unknown lineage arrives at the gate during the height of the summer season, the Master of Ceremonies must exercise a discernment that balances charity with the preservation of the House’s dignity. It is a gross breach of etiquette to place an unvouched stranger above the salt, yet to relegate a potentially noble pilgrim to the lower benches is an insult that may invite a feud. The correct procedure is to offer the 'Bench of Inquiry'—a seat positioned perpendicular to the high table—where the guest may be observed and engaged in discourse before their status is formally determined.

Should the guest prove to be of gentle birth, they are moved to the right of the host during the transition to the second course. If their station remains ambiguous, the hospitality of the House is maintained through the provision of fine wine and bread, but they are never permitted to touch the family silver. In the House of Brattleby, we value the stranger as a messenger of Providence, but we protect our hierarchy as we protect our walls; for a table without order is merely a tavern.

Begin by scouring the lampreys with salt to remove the slime, then scald them briefly in boiling water. Save the blood if possible, as it adds a richness to the sauce that no other thickener can replicate. Roast the fish on a spit until the flesh begins to pull away from the bone, then slice into thick rounds. In a separate pipkin, simmer the red wine vinegar with a generous portion of honey and the spices—cinnamon, ginger, and the sharp bite of grains of paradise.

Add the breadcrumbs and the sandalwood to create a deep, blood-red hue that speaks of luxury and power. Combine the fish and sauce, allowing them to cool together until the liquid sets into a firm, translucent jelly. This dish is best served chilled upon a silver platter, garnished with sprigs of fresh parsley. It is a dish for kings and barons, requiring a steady hand and a knowledgeable palate to balance the acidic vinegar against the cloying sweetness of the river fish.