Lord of the Rings Book IV: The Collecting of the Taxes

The King visits the Shire with a message for all hobbits

The Shire had already been abuzz with the news for days by the time the trumpeting of the heralds sounded at the borders. “He has arrived!” cried the hobbits to one another, flushed with excitement. As far as anyone knew, no king had ever visited them, and certainly not one as grand and storied as Aragorn, Elessar Telcontar, King of Gondor.

“How is my hair?” squeaked Rosie to Samwise. ‘Oooh, I’m so nervous to meet the King.”

Samwise marvelled at how little Rosie had changed in the years since they had married. He himself had grown plump and lined as Mayor of the Shire, but it had been a happy life growing their garden and brood of small hobbits.

“You needn’t worry, Rosie. After all, Aragorn and I are old comrades. He is a kind and generous man as well as a great king and warrior. Indeed, can you think of any other Man, Hobbit, Dwarf, or Elf of such stature who would ask to meet in our home before the ceremony of welcome?”

Even as he spoke, there was a rap on the door and the sound of trumpets.

“Announcing the King!”

Samwise rushed to open the door and saw his dear friend flanked by two members of the King’s Guard. Aragorn leaned down to embrace Sam warmly, then stepped in. He motioned to his men to stay outside and shut the door behind him.

Rosie, standing behind Sam, spoke.

“May I offer you some homebrewed, and something to smoke, my lord?”

Aragorn grinned. “You must be Rosie. You are as lovely as Sam told us in our days of travel and war. He spoke often of returning to the Shire to marry you.

“You must call me Strider, as your husband did in those dark times. And yes, the Shire’s ale and leaf is renowned throughout Middle Earth. I would be greatly honoured to share some with you.”

Shortly, all were seated at the table. Aragorn took a puff from his pipe and leaned back as far as possible without splintering his tiny chair.

“I must be honest with you, Mayor Samwise. I have come not just to greet the people, but because I have had troubling news.”

Sam sat up straight. “Trouble, Strider? Has Sauron returned? Are there Orcs in our lands? Rosie, fetch my sword!”

Aragorn smiled. “No, Sam, all is peaceful. What I must say is rather awkward. My revenue clerks have brought it to my attention that in all the years since the war ended, the Shire has never paid a cent in taxes. It’s not cheap to maintain the palace at Minas Tirith. And Arwen does like her silk bedsheets. Elvish ladies, am I right?”

Sam was quiet for a moment. “But Strider…my liege…we are but poor farmers. What would we give?”

“Potatoes, carrots, dried rabbit meat. And of course, your beer and leaf, which as I said is famous throughout the Kingdoms. And not only in Gondor and Rohan. We do considerable trade with the Orcs in Mordor, who do enjoy a pint.”

“But my lord, we grow only enough for ourselves and a few rare guests.”

Aragorn snorted. “I doubt that. Gandalf told me of the many celebrations and feasts held here. It’s time for the Shire to pay its share.”

Sam shuffled his feet in discomfort. “How much will you take?”

“We will take but the King’s Tithe. Forty percent of all that you produce. ”

Sam’s eyes filled with tears. “We will starve!”

“You will not. Probably. And if that is a concern, the Shire can earn gold by selling off some of its excess population. Hobbits are in much demand as sla…er, servants. They are particularly coveted in Mordor, for some reason.

“Honestly, if you’d built up an export business and worked on your trade balance, we wouldn’t even be having this conversation. You’ve had years to develop your economy.”

Aragorn left the table and walked to the fireplace, where he stood hunched slightly under the low ceiling. He picked up a small silver brooch on display there.

“This was a gift from Lothlorien, was it not? It’s probably worth something.” He thrust it in his tunic.

Rosie burst into tears, and Sam stood. “But Strider, I carried Master Frodo up Mount Doom! I saved the Free Peoples of Middle Earth!”

The King shook his head. “And we gave you a plaque or something, didn’t we? You can’t ride that pony forever, Samwise.”

From outside, they heard a shout that sounded like their old friend Merry. “Return my tobacco and food, or face the wrath of my sword!”

There was a clang of steel on steel, and a scream followed by a hobbit-sized gurgle.

Crashes and cries of conflict were coming from outside as Aragorn walked over and grasped the door handle. He turned and smiled.

“It’s been lovely catching up with you like this, Sam. You can probably cancel the welcome feast.”