As Torry nudged his horse through Bree’s west end gate, the town opened before him. To the left, the stables were abustle with horses and riders. Wagons were being loaded or unloaded, and townsfolk and traders were greeting each other or haggling. Straight ahead, the broad stone-paved lane rose toward the peak of Bree-hill. Lining the lane on either side, the west-end shops had already opened to a sunny morning, proprietors sharing greetings amongst themselves and early shoppers.
Behind Torry, and to the right, a husky female voice called to him, “Hey, Watcher, you’re late for the morning spar!” Hazel Kenton, the Watcher assigned to the west gate that morning, crouched in a fighting stance, spear and shield at the ready, her mischievous face grinning at him. “What, Hazel?” Torry chuckled as he turned his horse to face her. “You intend to run me through on my first day, before I’ve even filed my Oath?” Standing up from her crouch, she laughed lustily and approached with bared hand outstretched. “Not on your first day, boot. But maybe after a few brews at the Pony, we can talk about running through.”
Torry joined her laughter as he stripped the riding glove from his hand and leaned down to take hers, firm and warm, with her grasp suggesting more than Watcher camaraderie. “You’re still a shameless flirt, Hazel. When are you going to doff the red, get hitched, and make some babies?” She winked at him. “There be no shame in honesty, Torry. Besides, who’s talking about yokes and babies? Sparring is more like it, unless you’re offering to make me a Greenlake!” They laughed at her obvious tease, then she said goodbye and stepped back to her post. “No”, Torry thought, “she’s not for the life of some barefoot wife round with babes and keeping a busy kitchen.”
Smiling and turning his horse back to the main street, he trotted up the hill towards the Prancing Pony, but just as he passed the auction house, he turned off to a lesser used lane on the right, feeling the need to ride on alone, not wanting to be noticed by others he would know, not wanting yet to be seen as the new Watcher. Rumors of his intent to join had spread, as would be expected since he was a Greenlake, a well-known, prosperous and respected Bree-land family. Was his small doubt about taking the Oath starting to ominously loom over him? Did his confrontation with Chief Watcher Grimbriar uncover a weakness? Did he not think he could live up to his uncle’s service in the Watch? He shook his head, determined to push through his uncertainty. “One thing at a time”, he thought, focusing on the route to Town Hall.
The side streets eventually led to hitching rails and troughs off the main street and near the rear of the Hall. He dismounted and tied off his horse, drew and released a deep breath, and with scroll case in hand, walked around the Town Hall to its main street entrance. Just inside, the cramped foyer allowed barely enough room for Bonny Milkweed wedged in behind her tiny table.
“So, Torry, looks like the Chief finally reeled you in”, Bonny said with a smirk. Torry nodded at that with a skeptical frown, and handed her the scroll case. “It’s not certain I’m the fish he wanted to catch, Bonny”. After giving him a curious glance, she opened the scroll case and scanned the contents, dipped her quill and scribbled something at the bottom of the scroll, apparently satisfied that some bureaucratic rule had been followed. She handed both the scroll and the empty case back to Torry, saying, “Congratulations Watcher Greenlake. Welcome to the noble service of Bree. Give these over to Walt and then go up to see the Mayor. He’s expecting you.”
The back wall of the foyer was barely sufficient to frame the Clerk’s barred window, behind which sat Walt Hollytree, bent over intense scribbling on a sheet of parchment. He barely noticed Torry as the new Watcher passed the scroll and its case through the window. When Walt did look up, he saw Torry’s tilted head, eyes trying to determine what the clerk was writing. Walt quickly covered up the love letter with the items Torry offered, and then waved Torry off to the stairs with a flick of a feathery quill and a resentful look.
With a shrug and a grin, Torry turned and climbed the stairs to the tiny balcony overlooking the foyer and crossed to the Mayor’s office. Inside, Graeme Tenderlarch sat at a desk strewn with parchments, some spilling to the floor. Noticing Torry enter, the Mayor bade him close the door and take a chair next to the desk.
“First, welcome to the Watch”, Tenderlarch began after Torry sat. “Your uncle’s reputation precedes you and I’m sure we are all hopeful you will continue in the same good service.” Torry felt his stomach tighten a bit. “I can only do the best with who I am, Your Honor”, Torry returned with a respectful nod. The Mayor regarded him thoughtfully for a moment, then said warmly, “There is always a period of…adjustment, shall we say, especially where Grimbriar is concerned. He’s the last prodigy of the Old Guard, and is a hard teacher to please.”
Although Torry had heard his uncle mention the Old Guard, he knew little of them, and so looked at Tenderlarch curiously. The Mayor, noticing Torry’s interest, continued with that topic. “They were a few retired soldiers from Gondor and Rohan who were loyal and good men in their homeland service, but who were not recognized highly enough to be rewarded with lands or titles. So, they mustered out and sought service elsewhere. At the time, the Bree-lands were prosperous without being particularly troubled, so they came here to join our Watch and take on the relatively easy task of keeping the peace. Naturally we accepted them, and they served well.” The Mayor paused to lift a bottle of wine and two glasses out of a cabinet drawer. He filled the glasses and handed one to Torry, who took it with a polite nod. The Mayor chuckled a toast. “To the Old Guard.” Torry repeated, and both men sipped.
“They were also a rather entertaining lot.” the mayor continued, conversationally, as if sharing some intimate information with a confidante. He went on to describe sparring competitions pitting two teams of Watchers, one trained by Gondorians, the other by Rohirrim. For a while, the competitions were a source of wagering amongst the town-folk, until spirits got too high, accusations of cheating turned into a street brawl, and both teams had to suspend their last contest to break up the commotion. No one was killed, but a few bones and egos were bruised, and the foreign trainers met and agreed to suspend such competitions. “It was a shame”, the Mayor concluded, "when the Old Guard returned to their homelands. Seems the Troubles were already beginning there, as they eventually would here.”
Walt knocked at the door and entered without being acknowledged, moving briskly to the Mayor’s desk and setting down Torry’s Oath scroll. Walt and the Mayor exchanged silent bureaucratic nods and the clerk left, softly closing the door behind him. Tenderlarch scanned the scroll as he continued. “Grimbriar went back for a time with the Rohirrim. He was the best of those trained by the horse lords, and since his family has been serving in the Watch since.... well... forever I suppose, he wanted to complete his training and hopefully get some experience. After about six months, he returned with both, and I assigned him to lead the out-of-town patrols. Couldn’t do without him, these days, as you might be aware.”
Torry was aware of the Grimbriar patrols, with the Chief Watcher leading two or sometimes three Watchers on horseback, visiting the farms and speaking with the land owners. In recent weeks, he would occasionally see them riding out in the early morning and back in the afternoon with a bound captive Man, or the brandished heads of Orcs. Too often, they would also be leading back a wounded Watcher, either slumped in his saddle or behind his horse on a makeshift bier. The Chief Watcher proved his worth, as far Torry was concerned, by always returning and never leaving any of his Watchers behind.
“When your uncle retired,” the Mayor began as he slid the Oath scroll aside, “he took his uniform with him. May I assume you will be using it now?” The question lifted on a hopeful tone.
Torry remembered Garrison Greenlake’s mail shirt and shield, which he’d crafted after he began his service. After his retirement, his wife kept them stored away with other Greenlake treasures. She could not bring herself to bury them with her husband when he passed. On the anniversary of their marriage, or of his passing, she would take them out and remember him, and the rest of the Thornley-Greenlake clan would be sure to visit her on those days.
“I’d not considered doing that, but when I tell my aunt I’ve filed my Oath, I’ll accept them from her if she offers.” Torry drained the last of the wine from his glass and pointedly sat it on the desk away from him. The Mayor understood the signal from this son of a prominent family that he wished to conclude the meeting. Tenderlarch nodded, finishing his own wine, and announced, “Very well. All seems to be in order, Watcher Greenlake. However, before returning to the Chief Watcher, I have an assignment for you. Don’t worry about Grimbriar. I will message him to expect you after you have completed my task.”
The Mayor pulled another scroll from a desk drawer, handing it to Torry. “This is a letter to Mayor Wil Whitfoot in Michel Delving, asking for a copy of a report on the death of a Cutch Crane. I believe you may know the deceased?” Torry blinked at the name and took the scroll. “Yes, I know...of him”, Torry muttered, wondering why the Mayor would be interested in Crane. As far as Torry was concerned, Crane was a worthless vagabond who’d abandoned his parents years ago, but was somehow held in great esteem by Caladna Greenlake, Torry’s sister.
“I’ve assigned one of the Staddle Watch to accompany you, as she is a hobbit and familiar with the Shire. Her presence may also ‘grease the wheels’, so to speak, as the Shire-folk are not particularly fond of us Big Folks.” Torry wondered why the Mayor was sending him at all, unless he thought to curry favor with a prominent family to whom Crane was elliptically attached. Rather than abuse the Mayor’s intentions with unfavorably opinions, Torry just nodded quietly. “Her name is Millaray Boggs”, the Mayor continued. “Constable Tanglerush in Staddle is already expecting you.”
Torry tucked the letter into an inner pocket of his long coat. He stood, saying, “As you wish, Mayor Tenderlarch. First, however, without any objections, I’d like to pay my sister a visit. I assume she can still be found at the Scholar’s Hall?” The question was more a statement than a request, and being politically adept, the Mayor nodded, but helpfully added, ‘She is also often at the Orphanage just inside the Staddle Gate.” Torry froze for a moment, fixing the Mayor with blank, discomforting look. “She and Cob are still at that?”, Torry asked. The Mayor simply nodded.
Torry turned to leave, tossing over his shoulder, “I’ll be back when the hobbit and I are leaving for the Shire.” With a determined stride, he left.
