March 21

On this equinox morning, Baron Geoffrey de Brattleby gathered the tenantry beneath the crumbling arches of the West Gate to finalize the endowment of the Chantry of St. Jude. The air was thick with the scent of damp wool and the metallic tang of an incoming storm. Geoffrey, still pained by an old wound from the Agincourt campaign, sat upon a mounting block as he pressed the Great Seal into molten green wax, securing the spiritual future of the line in exchange for three hundred acres of prime Lincolnshire fenland. The document, penned on vellum by the shaking hand of Brother Thomas, bound the Grey Friars to pray perpetually for the souls of the Brattleby ancestors.

Beside the Baron stood his young niece, Lady Elspeth, whose task it was to scatter salt across the threshold of the newly deeded lands. As the ink dried, the local yeomanry cheered, for the indenture also codified their grazing rights for the coming decade. This act of piety and pragmatism ensured that while the House gave up its soil, it gained the favor of the Church and the loyalty of the common folk during a period of deep political instability. It remains a testament to the family's ability to trade temporal wealth for eternal and social security.

Should a traveler of noble bearing arrive at the gates of Brattleby during the midday meal, it is the duty of the Seneschal to assess their rank with silent scrutiny before they even dismount. One must never offer the High Table immediately; rather, the visitor is to be escorted to the Solar where a light refreshment of hippocras and wafers is served. This interval allows the Master of the House to assume his proper robes and for the kitchens to adjust the service without a display of unseemly haste. Nobility is measured by the composure of the host, not the lavishness of the sudden spread.

When the guest is finally brought to the board, they should be placed to the left of the host if they are of equal rank, or to the right if they bear a higher title. Conversation must remain light, avoiding matters of local land disputes or the health of the King until the third course has been cleared. To rush into business or heavy discourse is to treat the Brattleby table like a common market stall, a transgression that no amount of lineage can excuse.

To prepare this delicacy favored by the third Baron, the lamprey must first be bled carefully into a basin of vinegar to prevent the blood from curdling. The fish is then scalded in boiling water to remove the slime and cut into thick rounds. These pieces are simmered gently in a broth compounded of heavy red wine, bouillon, and a generous handful of the finest eastern spices. The kitchen must be kept cool during this process to ensure the sauce remains clear and vibrant.

Once the fish is tender, remove it and thicken the remaining liquid with the toasted breadcrumbs and the reserved blood-vinegar mixture until it coats the back of a silver spoon. Add the currants for sweetness and a touch of sharpness. Arrange the lamprey in a shallow earthenware dish, pouring the thick galantine sauce over it, and allow it to set in the buttery for several hours. It is served cold, garnished with sprigs of parsley, as a testament to the House's access to the riches of the sea and the spice trade.