May 17

On this seventeenth of May, the air thick with the scent of flowering hawthorn, the formidable Baroness Eleanor de Brattleby met the Abbot of Bardney upon the marshy boundaries of the north fen. For three generations, the overlap of grazing rights had sparked skirmishes between the Brattleby men-at-arms and the Abbey’s tenant farmers. Eleanor, dressed in her finest mourning weeds of velvet and Jet, arrived not with a sword, but with a parchment scroll of 11th-century charters, proving the Lord of Brattleby’s ancient prerogative over the sedge-grass.

With her bailiff, Geoffrey atte Well, standing guard, the Baroness negotiated a lasting peace by granting the Monks a tithe of the summer fleece in exchange for an undisputed border. The Abbot, intimidated by Eleanor’s grasp of Latin law and her unwavering gaze, set his ring to the wax. By sunset, local shepherds from both sides shared a cask of ale, marking the end of a century of strife. This boundary remains marked by the 'Eleanor Stone' to this day, though the Abbey has long since fallen to ruin.

When a scholar or a member of the clergy seeks hospitality at the Great Gate, it is the duty of the Seneschal to distinguish between the truly pious and the mere vagabond. A man of the cloth is to be offered wash-water and a seat within the lower hall without delay, yet the family’s private devotions must never be interrupted for a stranger of uncertain provenance. Should the guest be a Bishop or an Archdeacon, the bells of the chapel must ring three peals, and the Baron himself shall descend to the courtyard.

Never permit a cleric to sit at the high table until his credentials have been verified by the Chaplain. Once admitted, discourse should be steered toward matters of theology, the state of the harvest, or the King’s health. It is a gross breach of Brattleby etiquette to discuss the cost of the estate’s upkeep or domestic grievances in the presence of one whose primary allegiance is to the Holy See, lest such confidences find their way into the tithe-books.

First, roast the capon until the skin is gilded but the flesh remains moist. Remove the meat from the bone and mince it finely, or slice it into delicate collops as the season requires. In a heavy iron cauldron, simmer the juice of crabapples with a pint of strong beef broth, thickening the liquid with breadcrumbs that have been soaked and strained. This sauce must be seasoned heavily with the warmth of cinnamon and the sharp bite of long pepper to satisfy the Tudor palate.

To achieve the required vibrant hue, add a pinch of powdered sandalwood until the sauce runs like autumn clay. Toss the currants and spices into the mixture, then fold in the capon. Let the dish sit in a cool larder for several hours until the sauce sets into a firm, trembling jelly. Serve cold upon a silver platter, garnished with fresh parsley and sage, as a refreshing centerpiece for a late spring banquet when the heat of the kitchens becomes untenable.