March 29

As the sun rose over the frozen fens on this morning, Sir Geoffrey Brattleby took his leave from the Great Hall, his armor clanking softly in the biting air. The shadow of the Wars of the Roses lay heavy upon the household. He kneeled before the Lady Alisoun, who pinned a favor of Lincoln green silk to his surcoat, her face a mask of stoic resolve despite the rumors of the massive Yorkist and Lancastrian hosts gathering to the north. Behind them, forty men-at-arms stood in the courtyard, their breath blooming like ghosts in the morning mist as they sharpened their poleaxes.

By midday, the small column had crossed the Roman Ermine Street, heading toward Yorkshire and the destiny that awaited them on the palm-sunday snows of Towton. Sir Geoffrey carried with him the Brattleby Seal and a lock of his daughter's hair, vowing to return before the first swifts arrived at the manor eaves. The silence that followed their departure was absolute, save for the rhythmic tolling of the estate bell, a sound that echoed the heartbeat of a house holding its breath for a master who would never return to its hearth.

When a traveler of noble standing or high martial repute arrives at the Brattleby gate unannounced, the protocol is dictated by the principle of 'The Salt and the Steel.' The gatekeeper must first verify if the visitor's blade is peace-bonded with a leather thong. Once confirmed, the guest is to be led not to the Great Hall immediately, but to the Solar Antechamber where warm water infused with hyssop and lavender is provided for the washing of hands and brow. This ritual cleansing facilitates the transition from the chaos of the road to the order of the domestic sphere.

A true member of the household never inquires as to the guest’s business until the second course of the evening meal has been cleared. To pester a noble traveler before they have been sustained by Brattleby bread and ale is a grievous insult to their dignity and an admission of the host's own insecurity. One must observe the traveler’s heraldry with a keen but subtle eye, ensuring the seating arrangement reflects their lineage without the vulgarity of overt questioning.

Begin by skinning the eels and cutting them into pieces the length of a thumb. These must be parboiled in a mixture of spring water and a splash of sharp verjuice to remove the muddiness of their river life. In a heavy iron cauldron, soften the sliced leeks in a small amount of butter or nut oil until they are translucent and sweet. Add the parboiled eel along with a broth made from the heads and bones, seasoned heavily with ginger and the precious yellow of the saffron.

Thickness is achieved by stirring in breadcrumbs that have been thoroughly steeped in a crisp March ale. Allow the pottage to simmer until the eels are tender enough to fall from the bone at the touch of a spoon. Just before serving to the high table, toss in a handful of finely chopped parsley to provide the brightness of spring. The dish should be served in wooden bowls with thick trenchers of rye bread, providing the necessary warmth against the lingering damp of the Lincolnshire winter.