The Flight of Swallows Read Online Free

moor, woodland, wild moorland over which Brooke and his weekend guests had hunted, a lake, a stream where good fishing might be had and he was pleasantly occupied in the management of it all. His mother had also left him a woollen mill in Dewsbury which brought him more wealth but he had a manager and efficient overseers to run that.
    He turned and entered the front door of the house, calling to one of the maids to tell Percy to saddle up, bending to the sudden swirl of dogs who escaped through the kitchen door into the wide hallway.
    ‘Get down, you fool, and leave Nellie alone: you’ll have her over. Come along, don’t get left out . . . yes, yes, you can come with me. I know you don’t like being shut up all weekend but I can’t have you leaping about over fine ladies like—’ He stopped speaking abruptly, aware that the housemaid was all ears and it was not polite to criticise his guests, but, God strewth, he was glad they were gone. He’d done his duty to all those who had entertained him in the past and now he could get down to something he enjoyed, which was riding round the estate and having a word with – and casting a sharp eye on – his tenants. After the weekend he had just spent playing the dutiful host to some rather boring guests, though he had enjoyed the hunting, he felt like an amble on old Max to see what was coming into growth in his woods and fields and perhaps have a beer with Jack Emmerson, one of his tenants whose wife brewed the best ale on the estate. Jack had just purchased a bullock which was said to be extremely hard to handle. He was the largest of King’s Meadow tenants, leasing one hundred and ten acres. He was a good farmer, hardworking and punctual with his rent. Fuller’s Farm, as it was called, again the origins of its name lost in the mists of time, had a pretty farmhouse with a small orchard between it and the lane that ambled through the woodland to the main road to Overton.
    ‘Come up, Max,’ he said to the horse, nodding at Arch, the stable lad who opened the gate for him, setting the animal to a canter while the dogs, a black Labrador, a Jack Russell and a retriever who was the wrong colour, raced ahead of him, delirious to be out of the stable yard and away from the sedate walks Percy and Arch allowed them when Mr Armstrong had guests.
    Mrs Emmerson’s kitchen was old, as was the farmhouse, with a floor of buff and pink and primrose coloured tiles. It had an old-fashioned wide hearth with the spits and the oven to the side and a big black dresser set with bits of brassware and pewter plates and mugs. The farmhouse had been in the Emmerson family for as long as the Armstrongs had been at King’s Meadow and each housewife had seen no reason to change it. He was offered a glass of Mrs Emmerson’s cowslip wine and a piece of her best plum cake, or would he prefer some home-brewed ale. He chose the ale!
    The two men drank their ale hanging over the stout fence that stood between them and the enclosure where the new bullock eyed them suspiciously. He was certainly a fine-looking beast. He was docile enough now, Jack said, but the bugger’d have to be watched for he had a nasty mean streak and that’s why he’d got him cheap.
    ‘Tekks two on us ter move ’im, that’s why theer’s a ring through ’is nose, like. A couple o’ poles fastened to it an’ us’ll ’ave ’im. Yon’s a right good beast, Major, an’ already I’ve chaps waitin’ wi’ their cows. Tha’ve only ter say’t word an’ that lad’ll serve thine an’ all.’
    ‘I shall bear that in mind, Jack. Now, I must get on. Those dogs of mine are bristling up to yours so if we don’t want a fight . . .’
    ‘Nay, mine’ll do as tha’re told.’
    ‘Well, good luck with him, Jack,’ his landlord said as he mounted the patient grey on which he always did his rounds. Stand without tethering, would Max, and could be led on a thread but he did like a good gallop, one that accorded with his