THE WOLF, LION, AND SPARROW

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. Given that this is a work of fiction none of the recipes, medicinal recipes, herbs, plants, ingredients or medical treatments herein should be relied upon or utilized in any way.

Copyright © 2025 by Heide Middlebrook 

Kellsey Isle, western Scotland

Year of our Lord 1424

How had she lost track of time? Abby’s green eyes darted up toward the meadow’s glimmering horizon. She discovered the promise of evening with the first stars winking mischievously in a play toward nightfall. How? Her fist rubbed the spent tears from her tender cheeks as she knelt upon the field’s terrain, the damp soil staining her gown-covered knees. Easy – a consuming loss. Why? Why did hounds live so much shorter than those who were their caretakers?

She rubbed another tear onto her sleeve. Really, who was the caretaker? Díleas, her parents’ beloved wolfhound, was more a guardian to the family than the other way around. Wasn’t that the purpose she was out here alone plucking feverfew at such a late hour? To surprise her mother, a healer, with more for her tinctures? Aye, it was. Would it bring her mother, who didn’t know Abby had heard her weeping this morning, a wee bit of joy? Since the hound had passed, even her father’s reaction had frightened her. Never had she seen the former mercenary’s eyes glisten when he thought nae one was looking.

Pluck. Pluck. Pluck. Quicker! The pungent odor from the herbs inflicted her frenzied inhale. It was full moon this eve; the creatures would be out. She should have brought a friend. Ha! All other lassies her age of ten and two looked at her like she was a rotted apple on market day.

Odd was the term given more than once when they thought her out from earshot. So what if she didn’t fancy embroidery or dancing or gossiping like the other lassies on Kellsey Isle? She wished to check temperatures or give stitches or forge the wilds for herbs. Mother favored helping teach her the first two, but a friend to forage the fields? Ahh, this would be divine. Was there ever a chance to find such a Scot?

Ugh! Blinding gold hairs blocking her eyes once more, she tucked the stubborn strands behind her ear, again!

How many flower baskets in addition to the herbs had she gathered in honor for the hound’s ceremony upon the morrow? Her eyes glanced over the bounty. Half dozen. Nae, more was needed, so much more. She could return at first light… A rustling stole her attention in the darkened forest edges ten paces in front of her.

Her breath caught after her stomach tied a knot. Yellow eyes glared at her from the shadows. This was not the beloved Díleas.

Wolf.

Why hadn’t she brought her mother’s bow and quiver? If being dimwitted could cause one to sprout wings and fly like the “sparrow” her mother called her, then she would be in the air already. Could she outrun the creature flashing the fangs by moonlight’s first stream? Nae. Was he alone? Aye. Perhaps ease away carefully. She slowly went to stand.

Gggrrrr. The wolf’s fangs grew broader. She froze on her knees as if the first frost had just descended.

A strange glow slowly crept over the ferns and flowers and fallen leaves around her in a methodical way, approaching from behind. In her dire emotional state was she imagining a savior’s torchlight?

Scream, shout, plead for mercy! “Help me.” She peeped. That was a horribly colossal failure. Why? Fear.

A voice a wee bit higher than a full-grown Scotsman’s – had to be a lad – sounded from unseen rearward. “Lass, remain where you are.” Not an issue.

The unknown lad’s steps approached. Something in the deliberate manner he treaded upon the soil, slow and steady and sure – huh – it calmed the blood rushing through her neck’s vein. Her fingers tightened on the basket till the shards dug her palm when the wolf’s intense stare darted toward the lad who began to appear in her periphery.

The lad was big as the wolf, even at such a young age, with a blaze of red hair. It had to be Alasdair MacDarren’s son, Knox.

His weapon appeared; her mouth fell agape. “Ye dinnae believe to conquer a wolf with a twig?” she asked, her tone ridden by panic.

He retorted gruffly, “Silence.” Well, wasn’t he just as charming as his father, Alasdair. She’d heard the way her father had spoken about Alasdair.

“Lass,” he ordered, “dinnae run.” 

At Knox reaching down to grasp a thicker fallen pine branch, the wolf lowered its stance. Grrrr. Her breath halted; she couldn’t have run even if her gown hem was on fire!

Knox stepped before her, an engrained purpose to his action, as if he were preparing for attack. A wolf against a branch and torch. What could she offer in defense? Her fingers brought the basket closer to her hip.

She inwardly jumped her skin when Knox rose up to his full height and swung the branch at the wolf with all his might as he stoked the torch wildly above his head. “ROOOAAARRRR!” he bellowed like a lion in a fierce rip through the winds, which shook the flowers around her. The branch landed right before the wolf’s paws.

Whine. The wolf… Wait… the wolf ran?

Tail low, the gray shadow vanished into the fern thicket with a distinct crunch at the pace in retreating steps. Knox wasn’t done yet; he roared once more, waving the torch about. “I DARE THEE TO RETURN! I DARE THEE!” Silence with the exception from the raspy nature belonging to their breathing sounded.

Her lashes widened at the sight when he turned. At the angle he stood before her, the final lone ray from sunset through the trees caught his jaw-length crimson locks billowing in a wild way about his temples.

Huh, he reminded her of… “A Red Lion,” she murmured to herself.

“Lion?” Knox cocked his left brow. “Nae, lass, that was a wolf, perhaps a pup by the look of him.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Lad, I ken how a wolf presents,” she huffed. “I am not a dimwit.”

His step to reach her paused, and the brow went higher. “Are ye not a feisty lass,” he said. Wait, he was mocking her!

She began scrambling to her feet. Ouf! Her backside landed the meadow anew when her foot caught on the hem. The efforts paused when a hand appeared in her vision. She looked up at its owner; his expression had turned stern in a caring sort of way. The purpose came clear in his query.

“Lass, why are ye cryin’? Are ye hurt?”

Her eyes darted down to the basket still in her grasp. “Our hound has passed,” she replied, and at the declaration another salted badge from mourning marked her cheek.

“I had overheard my sire say the hound has not been weel,” Knox said softly. He sounded heartfelt; perhaps he was not as arrogant as his sire. “I am sorry, lass. I saw the hound forever trailin’ yer mam on her tasks about the isle. ’Tis a great loss.” Her gaze rose. Aye, he was being genuine.

The calloused fingers wiggled before her face as his reminder to aid. Carefully, she placed hers there. Huh, same as when she heard him approach, strong and steady and sure. Lovely. She was raised with ease when he gave a gentle tug then released her.

Next, he went to fetch the overflowing baskets tossed about the ground in her haste to fill them. Knox took stock in what they held.

“Feverfew,” he began. “But these others should be for herbed rushes, for if they are eaten ’tis deadly.”

How did he know that? “They are gathered to place at the ceremony my da has planned for the hound upon the morrow,” she explained.

“Lass.” He grasped the last baskets onto his left arm, making the limb appear more like a pine tree with enormous pinecones hanging off a branch than lad. “Allow me to see ye back to Hillock Castle.” She hesitated, and he gave air to her thought. “I ken yer sire and mine hate each other to their root over vying for yer mam’s affections years ago. I willnae chance their wroth. Simply a wee walk to see ye safe.”

She nodded, before they fell into step over the wayward pebbles crunching beneath their feet on the forest path. “Why were ye in the woods?” she wondered aloud.

“Huntin’.”

The fragile tether broke. “Ye do consider me a dimwit,” she accused. “Yer lone weapon is a torch, nae bow to hunt properly.”

A grin tickled his lips. “Feisty,” he murmured, then explained, “I dinnae consider ye a dimwit, Abigeál ‘Abby’ MacKearsin.” He knew her name. “Ye are sure footed to follow in yer mam’s steps as a keen healer for this isle. I was huntin’ for fungi.”

He gathered? “Ye forage as weel?” Disbelief weighed her ask.

“Aye,” he rebutted, then his eyes narrowed on her. “Why so shocked?” He was now the accuser. “May a lad not seek to gather or must there always be a bow or sword in hand to be deemed a ‘lad’?” Oh, aye, she liked him as a friend.

“Nae,” she countered, stepping over a mossy log before turning right at the familiar stream which led back to Hillock Castle. “’Tis rather a…” Her words trailed off. Had she been about to call him odd? Her foot almost tripped on a sapling. She was going to brand him the same as she.

This could be her foraging friend. “’Tis rather wonderful,” she gushed at the find earnestly.

His step paused; so did hers, and their eyes locked. “Are ye mocking me?” he questioned. By all the saints – they were alike!

“Nae,” she said gently, “I was considerin’ the strong need to have a friend upon my gathering trails. Would ye care to go gathering the day after the morrow?” It was Knox’s turn to hesitate. She gave words at what he possibly thought. “Our da’s cannae ken. ’Twill be our secret, a secret friendship born of interest to gather herbs. What say ye, Knox MacDarren?” Say aye, please.

He went to raise his hand to shake hers but both were brimming with the baskets and torch, so she grabbed his forearm in her fingers instead. The linen from his tunic sleeve was course against her palm and wrist. She heard him state while both their forearms pressed together, “Abby, I so promise my words hold true,” he vowed, “we shall meet upon the morrow after next to gather.”

She gave a firm nod at the pact before they fell back into easy stride beside each other. “Red Lion,” she said, calling him the name that fit while curiosity piqued her question, “what were ye seekin’ fungi for?”

“I aid the apothecary in the village,” he answered, “when my sire isnae having me training with the blade. I practice at blends.”

A tiny squeal escaped her lips as she hopped in front of him. “Oh, Knox, I ken of the best places for fungi!” Her enthusiasm rippled her words. “There is a wee cavern upon the north shores near the waterfall. They sprout same as the feverfew in the meadow.”

Knox’s face lit bright as the torch with a grin. “Then we shall have to seek there first.” Aye!

Her eyes searched upward toward the stars. Díleas, if not for the purpose haunting my soul to gather in yer honor, I would never have set foot to that meadow this eve and met my foraging friend. Yer still watching over the family from afar. Thank ye.

Follow Abby and Knox’s grown adventures in the upcoming historical romance:

A Red Lion’s Alliances

THE BACK COVER BLURB FOR THE UPCOMING 

A RED LION’S ALLIANCES (Book 2 Kellsey Isle’s Clans Series):

Mercilessly bullied. Abigeál ‘Abby’ MacKearsin has been for years in her quest to become a physician in 1429. Freshly completing her studies, the Highlander’s healer’s daughter returns home to Kellsey Isle only to discover her talents have been summoned directly by volatile King James I. 

Someone must protect Abby, who is thrust into deadly danger on her new journey when the king returns seeking vengeance on those who left him to rot in England. This task falls to Knox MacDarren, the son of her father’s enemy and a gifted apothecary who’s tormented after being wounded at the battle of Harpsdale as a younger lad, but who has risen to become the clan’s strongest warrior. 

The pair of secret childhood friends turned enemies, Abby and Knox, take to Inverness to weave through the royal court in hopes of protecting their clans as forbidden feelings spark deeper between them at a time when the king is seizing chiefs and is out for blood at the battle of Split Allegiances. 

Can Abby and Knox survive the king, the siege of Inverness, and their own clan’s inner feuds to fulfill their destiny in being together or will it all come crashing down?