September 20

On this cooling autumn afternoon, Sir Gawain de Brattleby met the Bishop’s emissaries upon the high ridge overlooking the Witham marshes. The air was thick with the scent of drying reeds and the metallic tang of approaching rain. For seven years, the House of Brattleby had disputed the grazing rights of the lower fens, where the silt-rich soil promised fat cattle for the winter markets. Sir Gawain, weary of the tithe-battles that had drained his coffers and soured his standing with the cathedral, arrived not with a sword, but with a parchment ribboned in the Brattleby blue.

Under a makeshift silk pavilion, the parties reached an accord that granted the House perpetual use of the northern leas in exchange for a yearly tribute of twenty prime eels and a silver groat to be paid at the Feast of Saint Michael. As the seal was pressed into hot crimson wax, a sudden gust of wind scattered the golden leaves of the elderberry trees across the table. Sir Gawain declared it a sign of divine favor, or at least a celestial laughter at the settling surrounding such muddy geography. This agreement secured the House's prosperity through the Lancastrian transition, ensuring the family remained lords of both the height and the hollow.

When the Master of the Hunt or the Chief Reeve approaches the dais during the September turn, a specific gravity must be observed by the reigning Lord. It is not merely a report of yields, but a ritualistic acknowledgment of the land’s submission to the bloodline. One must receive the first sheaf of wheat standing, with the right hand bare of any glove. To remain seated is to signal a slothful spirit that disregards the labor of the soil; to remain gloved is to insult the raw honesty of the earth that sustains the manor’s glory.

The conversation should be steered from the practicalities of the granary toward the spiritual health of the tenants. A Lord of Brattleby never asks of the price of grain first, but rather of the strength of the men and the health of the children who will inherit the toil. By prioritizing the human element over the fiscal, the Lord reinforces the paternalistic bond that has held the Barony together since the Conquest. Silence is often a greater tool than praise when assessing the season's success; let the bounty speak for itself.

Begin by jointing the mallards and searing them in a heavy iron cauldron until the skin renders its amber fat. Add the charred onions and a handful of oatmeal, stirring constantly until the meal takes on a toasted, nutty aroma. Pour in enough water and wine to submerge the birds, then let the mixture simmer slowly over a low peat fire. The hyssop should be tied in a bundle and suspended in the liquid, to be removed once its bitter verdancy has infused the broth.

As the meat begins to fall from the bone, stir in the currants and the crushed grains of paradise. The spice must be fresh-ground to ensure the peppery heat pierces through the richness of the waterfowl fat. Continue to cook until the pottage is thick enough to hold a spoon upright. Serve in trenches of stale rye bread, ensuring each guest receives a portion of the heart and the breast. The final dish should be dark, savory, and evocative of the darkening marshes from which the birds were taken.