March 12

As the biting winds of early March tore across the Lincolnshire Fens, Sir Percival Brattleby gathered his retainers in the outer bailey of the keep. The air was thick with the scent of wet wool and woodsmoke as the white rose of York was pinned to tattered doublets. This was the morning the Great Banner, a heavy silken thing embroidered with the Brattleby Falcon, was blessed by the chaplain. Percival, knowing the bloody reputation of the Lancastrian host gathering to the north, gripped the hilt of his father's broadsword and swore an oath to the soil of his ancestors, even as his young wife, Lady Elenor, watched from the solar window with a face as pale as the morning frost.

The march began at noon, the rhythmic thrum of iron-shod hooves echoing against the stone gatehouse. Three hundred men-at-arms followed the Knight of Brattleby, their path winding through the treacherous marshes toward the inevitable carnage of the Vale of York. It is recorded in the family ledgers that the silver bells atop the chapel spire rang until the last archer vanished over the horizon. Many who stepped out of the gates that day would never see the spring blossom on the Brattleby estates, yet their departure remains the house's most somber display of feudal fealty to the Yorkist cause.

In the Great Hall of Brattleby, the hierarchy of seating is not merely a matter of comfort but a physical manifestation of the Great Chain of Being. When the Baron takes his seat at the center of the high table, it is imperative that the placement of guests reflects their lineage, landholdings, and proximity to the Crown. A Knight of the Garter must never find himself seated below a mere sheriff, nor should a younger son of a peer be placed above his elder, regardless of his personal wealth or military standing. Such slights are more than social gaffes; they are direct insults to the bloodline and can lead to decades of bitterness between noble houses.

The salt cellar serves as the primary meridian of the table. Those seated 'above the salt' are entitled to the finer vintages of Gascon wine and the more delicate cuts of venison, while those 'below' must content themselves with ale and coarser pottage. It is the duty of the Seneschal to ensure that each man’s place is marked by a linen napkin folded in the specific manner of his rank. To occupy a seat not assigned is to claim a dignity one does not possess, an act of hubris that requires immediate correction by the Master of Ceremonies.

First, the river eels must be skinned and purged in fresh water before being sliced into three-inch segments. Prepare a short-crust pastry using the wheat flour and cold butter, lining a deep ceramic dish. In a separate mortar, grind the almonds with warm water and saffron until a thick, golden milk is formed. This liquid is then seasoned with the ginger and grated galangal to provide a sharpness that cuts through the natural oils of the fish.

Layer the eel segments within the pastry shell, scattering the dried currants and a splash of verjuice between each tier. Pour the saffron almond milk over the assembly until the fish is nearly submerged, then seal the pie with a thick pastry lid. Bake in a bread oven until the crust is the color of old parchment and the internal juices bubble through the vent holes. Serve cold on the fast day of Saint Gregory, as the spices are believed to warm the humors during the damp spring transition.