September 16

As the morning mists clung to the limestone escarpment of the Lincoln Cliff, Sir Geoffrey de Brattleby knelt before the High Altar of St. Cuthbert’s to receive the viaticum. His armor, polished to a mirror sheen by three squires, caught the flickering light of the beeswax tapers. Lady Eleanor, pregnant with their fourth child, fastened a sleeve of sky-blue silk to his pauldron, her fingers trembling despite her practiced stoicism. Outside the church doors, a dozen archers recruited from the estate sowed their final salutations, their yew bows wrapped in oiled linen to ward off the damp autumn air.

The procession wound through the village towards the Roman Road, the heavy rhythmic thud of destriers' hooves echoing against the stone cottages. Sir Geoffrey did not look back, for it was deemed ill-fortune to glance at one's hearth once the journey to France had begun. He carried with him a pouch of Brattleby earth and a vow to return by Martinmas. The village elders stood in silent vigil as the last of the pennons vanished over the rise, leaving the manor in a state of suspended breath that would last until the messengers returned with news of the great slaughter at Agincourt.

When receiving the first fruits of the tenantry, the Seneschal must ensure the social hierarchy is rigidly observed to prevent discord within the parish. The Freeman of the Upper Garth shall always present his grain first, followed by the socmen, and lastly the cottars. It is a grave breach of etiquette for a gentleman to acknowledge the quality of the offering with more than a brief nod; enthusiasm in the face of commerce is the mark of a merchant, not a lord of the soil.

Furthermore, when the tithe-sheaf is brought into the Great Hall, no servant may touch it until it has been sprinkled with holy water by the Chaplain. The Lady of the House must remain seated beneath the cloth of estate, her hands gloved in white kidskin, to signify that while she oversees the bounty, her person remains untainted by the toil of the field. To rush the ceremony is to invite a lean winter.

Begin by roasting the mallards on a spit over a medium fire of ash wood until the skin is crisp and the fat has rendered. Carve the meat into small, bite-sized pieces, discarding the heavier bones but reserving the carcass to simmer in a cauldron of spring water with the leeks and galingale to create a rich, dark bouillon. Once the liquid has reduced by half, strain it through a fine linen cloth to ensure the clarity required for a noble table.

Return the broth to the heat and stir in the saffron and verjuice, which lends a sharp acidity to cut through the richness of the waterfowl. Add the prepared meat and the currants, allowing them to swell in the simmering liquid for the duration of a Pater Noster. Serve the pottage in deep trenchers of stale bread, dusting the surface with a powder of cloves to provide a warming aromatic finish suitable for the cooling September evenings.