September 8

Upon this day, following the grim intelligence of King Henry V’s passing in France, the Dowager Baroness Eleanor de Brattleby sequestered herself within the solar of the North Tower. With the estate’s future hanging in a precarious balance of regency, she summoned the family’s chaplain, Father Anselm, to witness the signing of the Great Codicil. This document ensured that the Brattleby lands would remain intact despite the shifting tides of the Lancastrian court, protecting the inheritance of her young grandson, Geoffrey, from the encroaching ambitions of the Neville cousins.

The atmosphere was thick with the scent of beeswax and old vellum as the Baroness pressed her signet ring into the crimson wax. Outside the castle walls, the tenantry gathered in silent prayer, sensing the gravity of the transition. Eleanor’s resolve during these hours of darkness became a local legend; she refused to take meat or wine until the parchment was safely dispatched by a trusted messenger to the Bishop of Lincoln. Her foresight on this September morning ensured that the House of Brattleby survived the tumultuous decades of the ensuing minority rule.

In the seating of the Michaelmas feast, a nobleman must never mistake seasonal familiarity for a lapse in social hierarchy. While the harvest brings the lord and the yeoman into closer physical proximity, the order of the salt must be maintained with absolute precision. The guest of highest degree shall always be seated to the right of the Baron, ensuring their cup is filled only by the designated cup-bearer and never by a common servant. To ignore the rank of a visiting knight in favor of a wealthy merchant is a slight that no vintage can sweeten.

Furthermore, when the first loaf of the new grain is presented, it is the duty of the Baroness to break the crust before any other hand touches the bread. This act symbolizes the House’s stewardship over the land’s fertility. Conversation should remain light and steer clear of pending litigations or unresolved blood-feuds, focusing instead on the bounty of the earth and the health of the sovereign. Proper decorum at the table reflects the stability of the entire barony.

Take a well-hung haunch of venison and lard it deeply with strips of cold fat. Sear the meat over a fierce fire of seasoned oak until the exterior is blackened and sealed. In a ceramic pot, combine the claret with a generous cup of verjuice, adding the crushed long pepper and galingale. Allow the meat to simmer slowly within this liquor, turning it frequently so the spices penetrate to the bone. The aroma should be sharp yet sweet, signaling the melding of the fruit and the hunt.

While the venison rests, prepare the compote by boiling the damsons in honey and a dash more claret until they burst and thicken into a dark purple glaze. Strain the cooking juices from the meat and whisk in the fruit mixture to create a heavy sauce. Serve the venison in thick, blood-rare slices, draped in the damson Reduction and garnished with sprigs of fresh hyssop. This dish reflects the richness of the Lincolnshire woods as autumn begins its slow descent.