March 1

Upon this damp morning in the fifteenth century, Sir Percival Brattleby met with the abbots of Crowland and Bardney beneath the skeletal boughs of the Great Oak. The winter had been particularly cruel, leaving the lower pastures of the Barony submerged under a brackish grey tide. Percival, a man of engineering mind who had served with distinction in the Agincourt campaign, realized that the traditional dikes were no longer sufficient against the encroaching North Sea surges. With a quill carved from a swan’s feather, he signed the Accord that authorized the first systematic cutting of the Great Drain across the eastern marshes.

His wife, Lady Eleanor, watched from the stone ramparts as the gold-leafed parchment fluttered in the biting wind. The agreement was a gamble of coin and labor, demanding three hundred serfs to toil in the freezing mud for a season. Yet, by the following harvest, the lands once conceded to the eels and bitterns were transformed into rich, black-soil wheat fields. This act of agrarian foresight preserved the House’s wealth during the lean years of the Lancastrian unrest, securing Brattleby’s status as the breadbasket of the Lincolnshire Wolds.

As the season shifts from the introspection of winter to the activity of spring, a gentleman must adjust his carriage. When encountering a peer upon the muddy tracks of the estate, the lower-ranking noble must always dismount first, regardless of the condition of his boots. To remain seated while a superior speaks from the ground is a grave insult to the hierarchy of the soil. Furthermore, any mention of the year’s coming yield must be couched in humility; to boast of one's buds before they have bloomed is seen as a direct challenge to Divine Providence.

In the Great Hall, the transition is marked by the 'Lightening of the Hearth.' From this day forward, the massive yule-logs are replaced by smaller bundles of birch and ash. It is the duty of the Page of the Presence to ensure that the smoke does not linger, for a heavy atmosphere is conducive to melancholy. Discourse should turn toward the maintenance of the stables and the preparation of the hawk-mews, reflecting a spirit of readiness and rejuvenation befitting the House of Brattleby.

Begin by cleaning the leeks of all grit and slicing only the white and pale green parts into rounds the thickness of a thumb. These are to be parboiled in spring water until they yield to the touch but do not lose their integrity. In a separate stone mortar, grind the almonds with a splash of warm water until a thick, creamy milk is produced. Strain this through a fine linen cloth into a heavy iron cauldron.

Combine the leeks with the almond milk and simmer over a low peat fire. Incorporate the saffron, which has been steeped in a spoonful of honey, to grant the pottage a hue like the morning sun. Thicken the mixture with crumbs of the manchet bread until it coats the back of a wooden spoon. Serve steaming in bowls of polished maple, finished with a generous dusting of cracked pepper to warm the blood against the lingering March chill.