June 15

Upon this sultry afternoon in the year of our Lord 1487, Sir Osric Brattleby received a mud-spattered messenger bearing tidings of the bloody victory at East Stoke. While the rest of the kingdom shuddered at the final gasps of the Wars of the Roses, Osric stood upon the barbican and unfurled the great silk banner—a field of azure charged with the silver griffins of our house—to signal to the tenantry that the Tudor claim had been secured and the local levies might return to their hay-baling.

The triumph was bittersweet for the household; Osric's youngest brother, Thomas, had fallen in the fray, pierced by a rebel bill-hook. As the bells of St. Benedict's pealed across the fens, the Baroness Elara ordered the Great Hall draped in mourning weeds even as the wine was broached for the returning men-at-arms. It was a day that cemented the Brattleby loyalty to the new dynasty, ensuring our lands remained untouched by the King's attainder while the neighbors suffered ruin for their Yorkist sympathies.

When the summer feasts commence and the sunlight exposes the fraying edges of the family tapestry, a true host must exercise the most delicate discretion regarding the seating of impecunious or scandalous kin. It is the long-standing tradition of Brattleby that a cousin of the blood, regardless of his current financial standing or legal entanglements, shall never be seated below the salt. To do so would be to insult the very pedigree from which the Baron himself draws his authority. Instead, place such relations within the 'Zone of Quietude'—halfway down the high table, flanked by a garrulous aunt and a deaf clergyman.

Should the relation in question be vocal in their grievances, the steward must be instructed to provide the finest Malmsey in abundance. A quietened tongue is a blessing to the dignity of the house. Remember that the reputation of a noble family is not measured by its wealthiest scion, but by the decorum with which it treats its most wayward members during the public breaking of bread.

Begin by cubing the venison into small, uniform morsels, ensuring all silver skin is discarded. Marinate the flesh for three hours in a mixture of vinegar and crushed mace to soften the wildness of the beast. In a stone mortar, grind the currants with a touch of salt until they form a thick paste; this shall provide the necessary sweetness to balance the richness of the suet. Prepare a stout coffin of pastry, ensuring the walls are thick enough to withstand the heat of the great brick oven.

Layer the marinated meat within the pastry, dotting liberally with knobs of fresh marrow and the currant paste. Seal the lid with a firm pinch and wash the surface with beaten egg yolks for a golden hue. Bake until the crust sounds hollow to the tap of a knife. These pasties are best enjoyed at room temperature during a hunt or a long journey across the Lincoln Wolds, as the juices set into a savory jelly that delights the palate and sustains the spirit.