September 12

Under a bruising September sky, Sir Geoffrey de Brattleby stood upon the scaffolding of the South Hall to witness the placement of the final keystone. The stonemasons of Lincoln Cathedral had been commissioned for this specific labor, carving the House's heraldic cinquefoil into the limestone with such precision that it seemed to breathe against the grey horizon. Geoffrey’s wife, Lady Elenor, presented the master mason with a silver chalice brimmed with spiced piment, signaling the transition from a decade of reconstruction to a period of lordly occupancy. The gable, towering over the Lincolnshire fens, served as a beacon of the family’s renewed favor following the turmoil of the Peasant’s Revolt.

As the sun dipped below the marshes, the village bells rang out, not for liturgy, but in recognition of the House’s permanence. Inside the shell of the hall, tapestries of Flemish weave were unfurled for the first time, depicting the lineage’s service at Agincourt and earlier crusades. Though the interior smelled of damp mortar and fresh-sawn oak, the evening feast was a triumph of resilience. Sir Geoffrey declared that while the crown might falter in London, the stones of Brattleby would hold the northern line until the world’s ending.

When hosting a high table during the harvest season, the steward must be mindful that a priest of the parish is not merely a guest but a spiritual guardian of the manor’s bounty. It is a gross breach of etiquette to place a rector below any layman of lesser rank than a landed knight. The clergy should be seated at the dexter side of the salt, positioned so they may offer the benediction without obstructing the view of the master’s musicians. This ensures that the divine favor is acknowledged before the earthly appetite is sated.

Furthermore, when addressing the clergy during the meal, the conversation must remain elevated, eschewing talk of kennel business or the base trifles of the marketplace. One must remember that the House of Brattleby sustains its authority through a delicate balance of sword and stole. To disrespect the cloth at one's table is to invite misfortune upon the granaries and a cooling of the hearth. Silence is preferable to a jest that borders on the sacrilegious in the presence of the consecrated.

Begin by cubing the venison shoulder into small pieces, ensuring all silver skin is removed. Mix the meat with minced suet, mace, and a generous portion of crushed pepper, allowing it to sit in a cool cellar for three hours. Encasing this mixture in a rich, hand-raised pastry crust, bake the pasty in a slow-burning bread oven until the pastry acquires the color of polished mahogany. The marrow should be inserted through a small hole in the crust midway through the baking to provide a succulent moisture to the lean game.

While the pasty sets, simmer the wild sloes in a copper pot with a measure of gin and a spoonful of red currant jelly until the mixture thickens into a dark, blood-red syrup. Strain this through a fine muslin cloth to remove the stones and skins. Serve the pasty warm, drizzling the sharp, botanical reduction over each portion to cut through the richness of the suet. This dish is best accompanied by a sharp ale or a heavy claret.