June 24

On this high summer morning, news reached the manor of the catastrophic defeat at Bannockburn. Sir Geoffrey de Brattleby, a knight of steadfast repute, did not return with the King's baggage train; instead, his squire, a lad named Thomas of Welton, arrived at the gates bearing only a shattered gilded spur and a bloodied surcoat. The Lady Maude, awaiting her husband beneath the great oak of the inner bailey, received the relics in a silence that reportedly chilled the gathered tenantry more than the harshest winter frost.

No body was ever recovered from the marshes of the Forth, leading many to whisper that the knight was taken by the ‘Sidhe’ of the north. For forty nights thereafter, the Lady Maude commanded that a single candle be placed in the solar window, facing the Great North Road, a beacon for a soul that had lost its way. This event marked the beginning of the House’s long grievance with the Scots, a bitterness that would dictate local levies for three generations and see the Brattleby men-at-arms transformed into the premier border-scouts of the Lincolnshire fens.

When the household gathers for the Midsummer Feast, the placement of the Rector and his chaplains requires a delicate hand. A man of the cloth, though perhaps of humble birth, carries the weight of a divine commission that must be honored above even the lesser landed gentry. He shall be seated at the dexter side of the salt, yet never above the Baron’s immediate kin. It is a gross breach of etiquette to permit a curate to seat himself before the Lady of the House has adjusted her skirts, for the Church must acknowledge the temporal authority that provides its tithes and stone.

Furthermore, when addressing the clergy during the meal, the conversation should steer clear of base commerce or the bloody details of the hunt. Instead, one must inquire after the health of the parish poor or the progress of the nave’s repairs. Should the Rector overindulge in the heavy malmsey, the protocol demands a discreet withdrawal by the pages; a nobleman never notices the moral failings of his priest while under the sanctuary of the Great Hall roof.

Begin by parboiling the deer’s inward parts—the heart, liver, and kidneys—until they are firm enough to be minced into small dice. In a heavy iron skillet, melt the beef marrow and fry the meat alongside a handful of fresh parsley and onions. Once the meats have taken on a brown crust, pour in a generous pint of sharp verjuice and a splash of red wine to lift the juices from the pan.

Thicken the simmering sauce with breadcrumbs that have been toasted over the embers until dark as a nut. Stir in the ginger, peppercorns, and currants to provide a balance of heat and sweetness. Let it stew softly at the edge of the hearth until the liquid is reduced to a thick, glossy gravy. Serve this high-flavored mess upon trenchers of stale bread, which will soak up the humors of the meat and provide a hearty sustenance for the laborers during the long hay-cutting afternoon.