Mike Shevdon - Sixty-One Nails

She brushed past us and opened the doors to the Remembrancer's office. She brought two chairs forward from the wall and we were invited to sit across from the empty chair of the absent owner. Claire disappeared for a few moments, and then returned with a rectangular bundle wrapped in soft black cloth. She unfolded it on the desk, revealing a thick brown leather-bound book.

"This is the Journal of the Queen's Remembrancer, or at least the latest version of it. The earlier ones are in the restricted archives of the Public Record Office at Kew. This one is from about 1870 onwards." She smiled apologetically. "The duties of the Remembrancer were made largely ceremonial after the Queen's Remembrancer's Act of 1859."

She slid the book towards us. "Please be careful with it, it's quite delicate. There are some cotton gloves here," she glanced at me, "but they're probably too big for your hands." She passed them to Blackbird who was clearly a more suitable person, in her eyes, to be handling valuable documents.

The leather binding of the journal showed its age and use. Each hand that had held it over the years had added to the smoothness of the leather until there were two burnished patches, one on each side, where you might naturally hold it to lay it out to write.

Blackbird slipped the soft cotton gloves on and moved the book in front of her. I stood up and moved behind her so I could look over her shoulder.

The book was a little smaller than a standard letter size and creaked when it opened. She turned to a page indicated by a length of red ribbon sewn into the binding. There were rows of neat script. Each short entry described an event, the annual Trial of the Pyx being one, but there were others. Each had a date, written out in long-hand, the nature of the event and a list of those present. Some small details of the event were recorded and, occasionally comments were added about some aspect of the duties or roles performed.

On the previous page was the entry for the last year's Quit Rents Ceremony. It detailed the attendees, including the City of London's Comptroller and Solicitor and various representatives of the Corporation of London. Certain attendees were starred, though why they were picked out wasn't obvious. Blackbird leafed slowly backwards through the volume, finding almost identical entries for each year of the ceremony. After we had gone back about fifteen years, the hand changed to a more circular script, but the entries remained the same. Each year the knives were submitted and the horseshoes and nails counted. A response of good service for the knives or good number for the nails was given in return. The formalities of the ceremony were completed and the entry ended with some benign comment about an amusing address or ceremonial presentation.

Blackbird leafed back to 1945 and then slowed. I realised she was checking to see if the ceremony had been disrupted by the war, but there were the entries again, good service and good number for each year between 1939 and 1945. We went back again, stepping slowly back in time. I came to understand that the role of Remembrancer lasted between ten and twenty years, almost regardless of what happened in the world at the time. There was one script that lasted only three ceremonies and I could imagine some illness overtaking the person, particularly as the hand became more difficult to read until it was passed to a smaller, neater hand that wrote in precise rows of near identical characters that were more difficult to decipher than the hand that had preceded it.

The First World War was the same. There was no indication of the carnage going on in Flanders, just entries for each year, notes of visiting dignitaries and acknowledgement of the service and the number.

Claire stood up and went to the door. "I'll be just a moment," she said, unsure about leaving us alone with the book. "I have something else to show you."

She slipped out of the room, leaving Blackbird and I to leaf through the faded pages.

"It's like a heartbeat," I commented, more to myself than to Blackbird.

"This is it, Rabbit. This is the ritual. Don't you see?" Despite her calm outward appearance, I realised from her tone of voice that she was excited.

"The City of London isn't the same as London, the city. It has defined boundaries, its own Mayor, a corporation to manage its affairs and it is founded on the one thing humanity will protect to the end: wealth. What did the leaflet say? This is the oldest legal ceremony in England other than the coronation. Here you have the link between the kings of thirteenth century England and the legal system that preserved the existence of the monarchy into the present day."

"It's not perfect protection, though, is it?" I remarked. "The French overthrew their monarchy and founded a republic. We had periods where the position of the king or queen was very precarious. Anything could have happened."

"But it didn't, did it? Even Cromwell didn't succeed in removing the monarchy permanently. Maybe there was more than one reason for restoring the monarch to the throne."

"I don't think there's any way of…What's that?"

The hairs on the back of my neck prickled and before I realised it I was upright. Blackbird stood, her chin coming up, almost as if she was almost scenting the air. Tension built in the room like the moment before a lightning strike and I found myself backing away from the doorway.

"I thought you might like to see this. It's not really… Is something wrong?" Claire entered through the half open door carrying a small bundle. Wrapped in a soft black cloth, I could see heat-haze writhing off it like poisonous dark fumes. Blackbird backed away with an expression of tight distaste on her face. I couldn't get enough oxygen. The presence of the object was suffocating.

"What is it?" Blackbird asked.

"It's the Quick Knife," Claire said. "And I'm afraid it's broken."

Claire stepped forward and laid the broken Quick Knife on the desk and folded back the cloth.

It was difficult for me to see the knife clearly for the haze around it, but there were clearly two pieces to it. I backed further away and I could see Blackbird was having trouble maintaining her composure.

Claire looked up from the table at us, curious at first while a slow understanding grew in her eyes. She looked again at the knife and then back at us. There was a tense silence as she considered our reaction. I think Blackbird was trying to act normally, though she was failing. I wasn't even trying.

"You're from the other courts, aren't you?" Claire spoke quietly and it wasn't a question. She stepped back and pushed the door closed behind her. I wished she hadn't.

"Other courts?" Blackbird simply repeated the phrase.

"One minute. I need to get the box."

Claire opened the door again and stepped out, closing the door behind her, but leaving the knife unwrapped on the desk. I considered edging around the room and running out of the building. I glanced at Blackbird who clearly had the same thought.

The door opened and Claire entered carrying a dark wooden box. She placed it onto the table and opened it, then rewrapped the knife in the soft dark cloth and placed it into the open box alongside a similar knife that gleamed with a dull sheen. As she closed the lid, the tension in the room evaporated. Blackbird and I visibly relaxed.

"Well, that was exciting, wasn't it?" Claire said in a slightly brittle manner, turning to lean on the edge of the desk, regarding each of us in turn.

Neither of us spoke. It was clear that Claire knew more about this than we had thought, but what she knew and why was still an open question.

"I think it would be a good idea if we had some tea, don't you? Yes, that's probably the thing. Please, make yourselves comfortable again. I apologise for the disturbance. It never crossed my mind." She went back to the door, turning back, almost as if she were checking we were still there. "Give me a few moments."