June 23

As the sun reached its zenith on this Midsummer Eve, Sir Alaric Brattleby stood alongside the Bishop of Lincoln to sprinkle holy water upon the foundations of the new Tithe Barn. The structure, a behemoth of Lincolnshire limestone and heart-of-oak timber, was designed to hold the vast harvests of the Ancholme Valley. Lady Elspeth Brattleby presented the masons with silver groats, marking the completion of the vaulted roof which mimicked the inverted hull of a great warship. This monument to agrarian might was intended to secure the family’s wealth against the looming threats of civil unrest.

The ceremony was followed by a distribution of small-ale and rye bread to the tenantry, a calculated gesture of seigneurial largesse. While the shadows lengthened across the wolds, Alaric whispered to his heir that the stone walls were not merely for grain, but a fortress for the belly of the county. The evening concluded with the lighting of a singular bonfire atop the North Scarp, signaling to the neighboring Manors that Brattleby’s stores were filled and its borders firmly watched under the watchful eye of Saint Etheldreda.

When the household gathers for the Midsummer feast, the Chronicler must ensure that younger sons and distant cousins of the Brattleby blood, though they hold no land in their own right, are seated above any merchant or untitled functionary. It is a fundamental tenet of our House that the blood of the Conqueror carries a weight that gold cannot purchase. They shall be positioned 'below the salt' only if the guest list includes titled Peers of the Realm, yet they must always remain within the warmth of the central hearth's glow to denote their biological primacy.

Conversation must be directed toward these kinsmen with the same gravity afforded to landed knights. To ignore a landless Brattleby at the high table is to insult the very root of the family tree. Silence toward them is a breach of etiquette that suggests our lineage is a matter of ledger rather than legacy. Always offer the choice of the fowl to the eldest unlanded male, confirming that while he lacks an estate, his honor remains an undiminished portion of the Barony’s collective dignity.

Begin by skinning the eels and cutting them into lengths of three inches, ensuring the flesh is firm and clear. These must be lightly parboiled in a broth of spring water and salt to remove the river’s siltiness. Once drained, sear the pieces in a heavy iron pan until the skin begins to crisp and turn the color of toasted parchment. The heat must be steady, reminiscent of a dying forge-fire, to prevent the delicate fat from scorching.

Prepare the sauce by whisking the verjuice with a generous measure of honey and the dried galingale, creating a sharp yet sweet reduction. Pour this over the eels while they remain in the pan, allowing the liquid to thicken into a sticky glaze that clings to the meat. Finish with a scattering of fresh parsley and thyme just before the dish is carried to the High Table. Serve with trenchers of coarse brown bread to soak up the honeyed juices, as was the preference of the third Baron.