March 22

On this somber afternoon in the fifteenth century, a mud-spattered courier rode through the Great Gate of Brattleby, bearing the tattered heraldry of Sir Thomas Brattleby. The news of the English defeat at Bauge in France had reached the Lincolnshire fens, carrying with it the heavy tidings of the death of the Duke of Clarence. Sir Thomas, though wounded and a prisoner of the Scots, had managed to dispatch his squire, young Watkin de Vere, to return the family banner lest it fall into the hands of the Valois. This rag of silk, stained with the salt of the Channel and the blood of the Anjou campaign, was received by Lady Eleanor Brattleby in the inner court with a silence that chilled the gathered household.

Lady Eleanor did not weep as she took the silk, but instead ordered the chapel bells to toll a single knell every hour until the moon rose. The event marked a turning point for the House’s fortunes during the Hundred Years' War, forcing the estate into a period of strict austerity to raise the kingly ransom required for Sir Thomas’s release. For months, the banner hung over the high altar, a grim reminder of the high cost of chivalry and the fickle nature of continental conquest, while the village of Brattleby fasted in solidarity with their captive lord.

When a herald bearing the arms of a foreign or rival house arrives at Brattleby, the protocol of the Day of the Willow demands a precise balance of hospitality and vigilance. The herald is never to be seated at the high table, for his presence is functional rather than social; however, he must be provided a seat of dignity upon a stool of oak, positioned to the right of the salt but below the family’s immediate kin. It is a grave breach of etiquette to offer such a visitor wine from the cellar's finest vintage; instead, a reputable small ale or a middle-tier claret suffices to demonstrate the House’s plenty without suggesting a desire for intimacy.

Conversation must remain strictly confined to the business at hand—be it the delivery of a challenge, a treaty, or a funeral notice. Members of the House are reminded that a herald’s ears are as sharp as his tongue; any loose talk regarding the state of the harvest or the strength of the garrison is strictly forbidden. Once the message is delivered and the reply penned, it is the duty of the Seneschal to escort the visitor to the boundary of the demesne, ensuring he departs with a full stomach but no secrets.

Begin by skinning the eels and cutting them into pieces the length of a man’s thumb. These must be parboiled in a broth of water and the acidic verjuice to draw out the muddiness of the river. In a separate iron cauldron, sweat the sliced white leeks in a small amount of walnut oil or butter—though if the fast is strictly observed, use only a splash of water until they are translucent and soft.

Add the nettles and wild garlic to the pot, allowing them to wilt into a dark green slurry before stirring in the hyssop and the parboiled eel. Thicken the pottage with the sourdough breadcrumbs until it clings to the back of a wooden spoon. The dish should be served steaming hot in wooden trenchers, offering a sharp, medicinal heat that clears the blood of winter’s lethargy and prepares the soul for the coming joys of Eastertide.