May 15

In the damp spring of 1422, Sir Geoffrey de Brattleby convened a council of neighboring freeholders to address the persistent flooding of the lower marshes. The Great Hall smelled of vetiver and wet wool as the assembled lords debated the diversion of the Witham. Sir Geoffrey, known for his pragmatic engineering, presented a parchment map illuminated with the proposed sluices and dykes. It was a moment of rare regional unity, necessitated by several years of failed rye harvests and the encroachment of peat mire upon the ancestral hunting grounds. Following the signing, a great cask of Rhenish wine was tapped to toast the reclaimed soil.

His daughter, Lady Eleanor, recorded that the ink was barely dry before a sudden squall rattled the leaded glass of the solar, as if the fens themselves protested their taming. Despite the omens, the accord stood for three centuries, providing the foundation for the fertile black-soil yields that define the House's wealth. The physical document remains in the muniment room, its wax seal bearing the Brattleby Falcon, somewhat gnawed by the mice of antiquity but still legible in its broad, purposeful Latin script.

When hosting a banquet during the Rogation tide, the Chronicler reminds the Master of Ceremonies that unbeneficed clergy and traveling friars occupy a delicate station. They must be seated below the salt but never amongst the men-at-arms or common grooms. Their position is traditionally at the transverse board, where they may offer grace without impeding the conversation of the landed gentry. It is a mark of a refined household to provide these men with silver goblets, though of a smaller capacity than those afforded to the knightly class, signaling respect for their holy orders while maintaining the natural hierarchy of the realm.

Furthermore, should a wandering scholar of note be present, the Baron may elect to move him as high as the lower end of the high table, provided his Latin is proficient and his garments are clean. To ignore the scholarly or the pious is to invite a reputation for philistinism. One must never allow a priest to sit in the draft of the buttery door; such negligence speaks of a house that does not fear the accounts of the soul. Proper treatment of the clergy ensures that the House of Brattleby is spoken of well in the rectories and cathedrals across the shire.

First, the cook must ensure the carp is purged in fresh spring water for two days to remove the taste of the mud. Scale and gut the fish with a sharp blade, then score the skin in a diamond pattern to allow the flavors to penetrate the flesh. In a heavy pewter or iron pot, combine the verjuice with a generous pinch of galangal and the honey, stirring until the mixture begins to froth over a medium fire. Add the saffron strands, which have been previously steeped in a spoonful of warm ale to draw out their golden hue.

Place the carp gently into the liquid, scattering the currants across its back to represent the dark stones of the brook. Simmer the fish slowly, basting frequently with the acidic broth until the flesh flakes easily from the bone. In the final moments of cooking, garnish with the petals of gillyflowers for a sweet aroma. Serve on a warm charger with toasted rye trenchers, ensuring the sauce is thickened with a small amount of crumbled bread to capture every drop of the spiced liquor.