May 26

On this bright morning in 1415, Sir Roland Brattleby stood within the nave of the parish church to witness the final installation of the Great East Window. The glass, transported with immense difficulty from the workshops of York, captured the morning sun in a kaleidoscope of cobalt and crimson. Sir Roland had commissioned the work to ensure his family's eternal favor following his survival at the Siege of Harfleur. As the lead cames were secured, the image of Saint George, bearing the likeness of Roland’s late father, shimmered with a divine radiance that many locals claimed was a celestial omen for the coming campaign season.

The Baroness Eleanor supervised the distribution of spiced ale and white bread to the glaziers and masons, marking the transition from a site of labor to a place of hallowed beauty. The village children gathered to watch the light dance across the flagstones, a spectacle that would define May twenty-sixth for generations. This act of piety solidified the House of Brattleby’s status as the primary architects of spiritual life in the fens, merging their temporal power with the eternal light of the Yorkist glass-masters.

When a traveling cleric of the rank of Bishop or higher approaches the Brattleby gates, the House must observe the Protocol of the Lowered Lance. The Master of Horse is to ensure that no weaponry is held upright as the holy man passes through the inner bailey. It is a mark of profound disrespect to greet a man of the cloth with the vertical steel of war. Instead, all guards must stand at attention with pikes reversed, heads slightly inclined toward the pectoral cross of the visitor.

Inside the Great Hall, the guest is to be seated in the 'Cathedra of Occasion'—a chair of carved oak reserved specifically for those who shepherd souls. The Baron himself must present the first cup of watered wine, signifying that under the Brattleby roof, the laws of God supersede the laws of the Marcher Lords. Failure to yield the head of the table to a visiting prelate is considered a grievous breach of feudal hospitality that invites both social scandal and spiritual peril.

First, the pike must be cleansed and poached gently in a broth of water and strong wine vinegar until the flesh is firm but not flaked. Once cooled, the skin is removed with a silver knife, and the fish is laid upon a bed of fresh herbs to await its mantle. The galantine sauce is prepared by reducing fish stock with saffron and galingale, thickening it until it clings to the spoon like heavy silk.

Fold in the currants and the sharp verjuice, stirring constantly over a low peat fire to ensure the spices do not scorch. Pour the golden liquid over the cold fish until it is entirely encased in a translucent amber jelly. Once set in the buttery cool of the stone larder, it should be served with toasted manchet bread. This dish is prized for its cooling properties during the humid transition into the summer months.