May 29

As the news reached Lincolnshire that His Majesty Charles II had entered London, Baron Thomas Brattleby ordered the unearthing of the family’s silver-threaded banners, which had remained buried in sealed lead caskets beneath the Great Hall’s flagstones throughout the Cromwellian interregnum. The Baron, though grayed by years of quiet resistance and heavy fines, donned his rusted breastplate and climbed the winding stairs of the keep. Beside him, his daughter Elspeth carried the heavy iron key to the rooftop turret. Together, they unfurled the silk, which caught the gale blowing off the North Sea, signaling to the surrounding villages that the old order had returned.

The villagers gathered in the tilting yard, casting aside the somber woolens of Puritan austerity for ribbons of forbidden green and gold. Thomas addressed the throng, his voice crackling with emotion as he proclaimed the end of the long winter of the soul. He ordered three pipes of claret to be broached and distributed to every tenant, ensuring that the toast to the King’s health was heard echoing across the fens. This moment marked not just a political restoration, but the survival of the Brattleby lineage, which had teetered on the brink of ruin during the long years of sequestration.

When welcoming those whose lands were seized and subsequently returned, the Master of Ceremonies must exercise a delicate hand in the arrangement of the high table. It is the height of discourtesy to seat a restored neighbor below a merchant who flourished during his exile, regardless of the merchant's current wealth. Lineage, like a river, may be dammed, but its source remains the higher ground. One should always seat the eldest of the returned line to the right of the host, symbolizing the restoration of his honor and the recognition of his steadfastness during times of trial.

Conversation should strictly avoid the mention of past fines or the state of the estate during its occupancy by interlopers. Instead, the focus must remain on the resilience of the soil and the continuity of the name. To ask a guest 'How did you fare in France?' is acceptable; to ask 'What became of your timber?' is an unforgivable breach of etiquette. The goal of the protocol is to provide a seamless transition back into the social tapestry, as if the years of absence were but a long, albeit tedious, hunting trip.

Begin by cleaning the pigeons and removing the meat from the bone, chopping it into morsels of uniform size. Toss these in a stone bowl with the mace, pepper, and minced herbs. In a skillet, lightly brown the meat in butter before dousing it with a splash of verjuice to lift the fats. The currants should be soaked in ale until they swell, then folded into the meat mixture to provide a sweet counterpoint to the gamey richness of the birds.

Line a deep ceramic dish with your suet crust, rolled to the thickness of a thumb. Layer the pigeon mixture within, pouring the egg yolks over the top to act as a binding custard. Seal the pasty with a heavy lid of dough, crimping the edges with a fork to represent the sun’s rays. Bake in a bread oven of moderate heat for two hours until the crust is the color of polished mahogany. Serve hot to the table, accompanied by a sharp mustard or a preserve of damson plums.