March 4

On this gray morning in 1422, Sir Alaric de Brattleby met with the Abbot of Bardney upon the marshy periphery of the estate to finalize the drainage boundaries that had caused decades of legal strife. The air was thick with the scent of damp peat and the calls of returning lapwings as the two parties paced out the limits of the 'Great Sluice.' Sir Alaric, weary from the French campaigns, sought a domestic peace that would ensure the Brattleby wool clip reached Boston port without the hindrance of ecclesiastical tolls or flooded pastures.

By dusk, the 'Blood-Iron Cross' was driven into the softened earth as a permanent marker of the accord. Lady Catherine de Brattleby prepared a celebratory banquet of eel and pike, though the atmosphere remained somber as the parchment was sealed with heavy wax. This agreement allowed the House of Brattleby to reclaim forty acres of prime grazing land, fundamentally shifting the family's wealth from feudal service toward the burgeoning mercantile trade of the fifteenth century, a transition that spared the house from the worst financial ruins of the subsequent dynastic wars.

When hosting those of gentle blood who lack the permanence of ancestral soil, the Marshall of the Hall must exercise a delicate hand in the arrangement of the salt. It is the tradition of Brattleby that such guests are seated according to the antiquity of their vowels and the merit of their service, rather than the breadth of their purses. One must never place a younger son of a Marquis below a wealthy merchant of the wool-staple, for blood remains the only currency that does not devalue in the eyes of the Almighty.

During the first course, the host shall acknowledge these guests with a nod of the head—never a full bow—to signify their inclusion in the noble circle while maintaining the necessary distance of rank. Conversation should be steered toward the common hunt or the welfare of the parish, avoiding the specificities of land management which may cause embarrassment to those who possess no soil to call their own. Such grace preserves the harmony of the Great Hall.

Begin by scouring the lampreys with salt to remove the slime of the river, then bleed them carefully into a vessel of red wine to preserve the essence. Slice the fish into thick rounds and brown them lightly in a pan with lard or almond oil. In a separate copper pot, bring the verjuice to a gentle simmer, whisking in the ground spices and the saffron until the liquid takes on the hue of beaten gold.

Incorporate the thickened ale-bread crumbs and the reserved blood to create a sauce of deep, velvet consistency. Add the fish and the currants, allowing the mixture to stew on the edge of the hearth where the heat is constant but muted. Serve within a trench of sourdough, ensuring the sauce is spooned generously over the lamprey so that the sharpness of the verjuice cuts through the richness of the flesh, a dish much favored by the third Baron during the Lenten fasts.