May 12

Upon this soft May morning, the third Baron Brattleby, Sir Alaric the Elder, convened a most solemn gathering at the edge of the limestone escarpment. The air was thick with the scent of wild garlic and the restless jingling of silver bells from the gloves of thirty noblemen. Having long disputed the grazing rights of the high wolds with the Bishop of Lincoln, the House of Brattleby finaly presented a charter signed in ox-blood ink, securing the fens for their tenantry for a thousand years. Lady Elspeth, Alaric’s spirited daughter, famously released her favorite tiercel, 'Gale-Runner,' who brought down a heron mid-air, an omen interpreted by the local friars as divine confirmation of the House's enduring sovereignty over the soil.

The feast that followed under the budding oaks was a testament to Brattleby wealth, with barrels of Rhenish wine hauled by oxen from the coast. While the legalities were dry as parchment, the celebration was anything but; it is recorded that the villagers of the lower manor were granted three days of respite from their labors and double rations of dark ale. This day became the foundation for the 'Brattleby Peace,' a period of four decades without a single boundary dispute, proving that a well-timed falconry display and a generous pour could settle what steel and law could not.

When a messenger or herald bearing foreign livery approaches the outer gatehouse, the resident Seneschal must never permit entry until the traveler has stated their purpose thrice. This is not mere obstinacy, but a safeguard for the dignity of the House. Once verified, the herald is to be escorted to the Lesser Hall, never the Great Hall, and offered watered wine and a loaf of white manchet. It is a grave breach of etiquette to inquire of news before the guest has finished their first cup, for a thirsty man is a liar, and a hungry man lacks the refinement to speak the truth with proper deference to his hosts.

Should the herald bear news of a death or a call to arms, the Baron must receive him standing, hand resting upon the pommel of his ceremonial blade. Gold should be pressed into the messenger's hand only upon his departure, and the amount must reflect the status of the sender, not the quality of the news itself. To underpay a king’s messenger is treason; to overpay a rival’s messenger is a sign of weakness. Balance is the soul of Brattleby hospitality, ensuring we are neither seen as parsimonious nor desperate for favor.

Begin by gathering the young, tender leaves of the tansy and spinach. Bruise them in a stone mortar until the juice runs green and vibrant, then strain through a fine linen cloth. In a heavy pewter bowl, whisk the eggs with the cream and a generous splash of rosewater until the mixture is as smooth as autumn silk. Slowly incorporate the herb juices, ensuring the color remains a pale, mossy emerald, reminiscent of the Lincolnshire spring.

Melt a knob of sweet butter in a shallow skillet over a low charcoal fire. Pour in the mixture and stir gently with a wooden spoon until it begins to set, then leave it to firm into a delicate custard. Once the edges are golden, slide the tansy onto a warm silver salver. Dust heavily with sugar to temper the natural bitterness of the herbs and garnish with freshly plucked primrose petals. It must be served immediately, for the lightness of the eggs will collapse if the dish is allowed to feel the chill of the hall.