Chapter Three
By the sunrise of the next day, Marcho and Blanco were ready to leave for Bree once more. Grandfather had prepared supplies for them which he packed carefully into travel packs. It was his wish that they might stay a while longer until they had fully recovered, but it was clear that the two had no intention of delaying their quest.
“Go and be well.” Grandfather said to them with a smile as they left Staddle. “I shall await your return here, so do not be long!”
By the afternoon they had arrived in Bree. They decided to avoid the southern gate this time, in case they were recognised by the guards there. Instead they entered by the east, where they received a warmer reception than last time. The guard at this gate was younger and fairer in looks than the southern gatekeeper.
“If you are looking for the Sheriff, you will want to head towards the Sheriff’s Hall.”
It was not difficult for them to find the Hall, for it was the tallest building in the village. For many it was the gloomiest too. The Sheriff was not a public figure, preferring to hide away in his tower. If one wanted to speak with him, then it was their responsibility to come to him. The villagers were divided on their opinion of Goodtwig. Some believed that it was him who was directly responsible for the corruption in Bree, but others believed that he was simply ignorant of all malpractice of his officials. Either way, he was by no means popular. Although born of humble birth in Bree, Goodtwig spent much of his life in Norbury, the capital of the kingdom. He was then appointed by the King to govern over Bree many years ago, an appointment that he resented.
Upon arriving at the Hall, Marcho and Blanco found a large wooden door. Luckily for them, a smaller door within it allowed them to enter. It was a gloomy place indeed. The room they entered was dark and damp, with a thick air that made it difficult to breathe. Even for a hobbit, it was cramped. All that could fit in was a table and the staircase leading to the next floor. At this table was the Sheriff’s clerk, a young lad with a sharp-pointed nose.
“What do you want, Halflings?” the disinterested clerk sighed.
“We wish to speak with the Sheriff.” Marcho replied politely.
“Well, obviously. Name?”
“I am Marcho, and this is my brother Blanco.”
The boy nodded. “Go upstairs and wait to be summoned.”
And so they did. The upstairs room was far more pleasant than the ground floor, with carpet and tapestries making the interior more homely. But climbing the stairs had made them both uneasy. They found a wooden bench by the wall and sat upon it. Then they waited, for what seemed like hours.
At long last, they were summoned upstairs again. This time to the Sheriff’s office. This room appeared almost like a palace, with expensive and well-crafted furniture. The Sheriff’s desk was large indeed, made from polished oak with various carvings adorning it. The man behind the desk was dressed in the finest of clothes, most notably furs around his shoulders. He was also extremely fat, with his bald head resembling a tomato. This was the mighty Lord Goodtwig, who now seemed mighty only in size.
“Sit.” He commanded. The two hobbits obeyed and took a seat opposite him. They could only just see him over the great desk.
“We are here to-“
“Do not speak unless spoken to, Halfling.” The Sheriff hissed, his many chins expanding like baking bread. “Why do you bother me?”
“We are here to gain your permission go to Fornost.” Marcho explained. “And speak to the King.”
“On what business? I doubt the King of Arthedain has any more interest in the trifles of Halflings than I do.”
“Our business is between us and the King.” Blanco retorted.
“Mind your tongue, boy.” The Sheriff snapped. His face was now redder than ever. “You will tell me what business you have in the capital, and why the King must hear it himself!”
The two brothers sat in silence for a moment. They could not tell him the truth, could they? Surely Sheriff Goodtwig would not allow them to go to the capital with the intention of migrating away from his jurisdiction, for they were Goodtwig's people. But were they his people, truly? Marcho remembered all the injustices that the hobbits had received under the Sheriff. Perhaps there would be nothing he would like more than to see them leave.
“We wish to be granted land, for the hobbits of Bree and Staddle. West of the Barnaduin River.” Marcho finally replied.
“Why?” the Sheriff snapped.
“We believe…” Blanco began, before losing his confidence.
“We hobbits are a peaceful folk.” Marcho added in. “The war is of no interest to us, and we are no interest to the war. Perhaps it is best if we unburden you."
“And burden the King, instead? What makes you think he will be willing to grant you what you seek?”
“I do not know the King’s mind, nor shall I try to guess. Only the King knows what the King might do, or not do.” Marcho returned, remembering what Grandfather had said.
“Fine.” The Sheriff snorted. “You will make your own way to the capital. Do not expect to succeed, for you will surely not.”
Goodtwig scribbled his name on some parchment and threw it at the hobbits. Blanco caught it before it struck his face.
“Be gone, now.”
The brothers left the Sheriff’s Hall and stopped off at the inn for the night. Tomorrow they would make their way north to the Norbury of the Kings.
