May 9

Upon this ninth of May, the widowed Lady Isolda of Brattleby gathered the scrivener and two monks from Barlings Abbey within the solar to finalize the endowments for her husband's chantry. Sir Alaric had perished during the grueling sieges in France, leaving a void that echoed through the stone halls. The parchment, thick and smelling of treated calfskin, detailed the exchange of three hundred acres of fenland and the fishing rights of the Witham in perpetuity. In return, the monks pledged to sing daily masses for Alaric’s soul, ensuring his name would be whispered before the altar as long as the abbey stood.

Lady Isolda, wearing the heavy black weeds of her station, pressed the Brattleby seal into hot vermilion wax with a hand that did not tremble. Witnesses noted the flickering candlelight catching the silver thread of her veil as she articulated the specific requirement for four wax tapers to be lit every anniversary. This act of spiritual navigation was more than mere grief; it was a calculated preservation of the House’s celestial standing, anchoring the departed Lord to the very earth of Lincolnshire while his spirit traversed the trials of purgatory.

When seated at the High Table during the transition from Spring into Summer, the noble guest must master the art of the 'invisible service.' It is the height of rustic ignorance to reach across a peer for the salt-cellar or to signal a page with a loud snap of the fingers. One’s movements should be as fluid as the tides of the Wash, directed by subtle nods or the slight inclination of the head. Silence should be maintained while the chaplain offers the grace, and one must never begin their meal until the ranking Brattleby has broken their bread.

Conversation should remain light, avoiding the heavy politics of the Court unless prompted by the Baron himself. It is also a mark of high breeding to leave the choicest cuts of the roast for the elder ladies of the house, showing that the vigor of youth is tempered by the wisdom of chivalric restraint. To clutter the trenchers with discarded bones is a grave offense; one must use the provided side-vessels with a delicacy that suggests one eats merely to sustain the soul, rather than to sate a gluttonous appetite.

Begin by skinning the eels, harvested fresh from the Brattleby marshes, and cutting them into three-inch lengths. In a heavy copper cauldron, bring a broth of spring water and a splash of sharp verjuice to a gentle simmer. Add the parsley and herbs until the liquid turns the color of a May meadow. The eel must be poached slowly until the flesh just begins to pull from the bone; over-boiling results in a muddy texture unsuitable for a noble palate.

In a separate mortar, grind the ginger, saffron, and cloves into a fine paste, loosening it with more verjuice and the toasted breadcrumbs to serve as a thickener. Stir this into the poaching liquid along with the currants for a brief minute until the sauce clings to the back of a silver spoon. Serve the eels in a shallow ceramic dish, pouring the vibrant green sauce over the top, ensuring the fragrance of the exotic spices mingles with the freshness of the river herbs.