May 7

When the foundation stone of the Great Tithe Barn was laid, Sir Aleric de Brattleby commanded that a silver groat be placed beneath the eastern cornerstone to ensure a perpetual harvest. The ceremony was attended by the Bishop of Lincoln, who blessed the timbered beams hewn from the ancient oaks of the Witham valley. While the village children wove garlands of early hawthorn, the Master Mason, Elias of York, demonstrated the strength of the double-tenon joints to the gathered tenantry. It was a day of profound optimism, as the House intended this structure to stand as a fortress for the grain against the lean years and the frequent raids of the northern marcher lords.

By sunset, a great feast of braised venison and honeyed ale was spread across long trestle tables within the unfinished walls. Lady Margaret de Brattleby distributed loaves of white manchet bread to the widows of the estate, reinforcing the bond between the Manor and its flock. This stone-and-oak monument remained the pride of the Wolds for four centuries, serving not merely as a granary, but as a sanctuary for those fleeing the periodic floods of the fens. Even now, the charred remnants of the west gable tell the story of the Great Fire of 1802, yet the foundation stone—and Aleric’s groat—are said to remain undisturbed deep in the Lincolnshire clay.

In the presence of the Baron, the arrangement of the lower board requires a discerning eye for the nuances of lineage and tenure. One must never seat a Knight of the Shire below a mere Franklin, regardless of the latter’s liquid wealth. True nobility recognizes that the soul of the hall resides in the hierarchy of the blood, not the fullness of the purse. The Chronicler reminds all stewards that a placement error of even three inches can lead to a blood feud that outlasts the longest winter.

Furthermore, when guests of varying degrees are assembled, the silence of the salt-cellar must be respected. Those seated below the salt are expected to speak only when addressed by their betters, yet a wise host will ensure that the conversation flows downward like wine. It is the duty of the Brattleby heir to acknowledge every guest with a nod of the head, ensuring that even the humblest esquire feels the warmth of the hearth and the weight of the House’s ancient hospitality.

Begin by pounding the young, bitter tansy leaves in a marble mortar until their green liquor is fully expressed. In a separate bowl, whisk the eggs with the cream and a generous splash of rosewater, folding in the breadcrumbs until the mixture reaches the consistency of a thick batter. Add the tansy juice sparingly; it is a potent herb that should provide a refreshing bite rather than a total medicinal astringency. Season with the grated nutmeg to provide a warm counterpoint to the verdant flavor.

Heat the salt-butter in a shallow copper pan until it froths like the sea. Pour in the mixture and cook over a steady, low flame, taking care not to scorch the bottom. Once the edges have set, the cake must be turned with great dexterity or finished under a salamander until the top is a golden brown. Serve hot, drizzled with honey that has been clarified over a slow fire. This dish is traditionally prepared in May to cleanse the blood of winter's humors and celebrate the return of the sun.