Barbara Taylor Bradford - Angel

The two men were moving into the centre of the baronial hall, fencing feverishly. Attack. Parry. Attack. Parry. James had begun to pant excessively, his movements slowing. Gavin was gaining ground once more. He was on the offensive, in superb control, moving in for the kill.

James stumbled and went down, his sword clattering across the stone floor, out of reach.

In a flash Gavin was by his side, standing over James, the point of his sword resting close to the other knight’s throat.

Their eyes locked in an intense and powerful gaze. Neither one could look away.

‘Kill me then, and be done with it!’ James cried out at last.

‘I do not choose to soil my sword with your blood,’ Gavin intoned coldly but in the softest of voices. ‘Suffice it that I have won this last, and final, fight. Now it is truly finished between us. Be gone from these parts, return on fear of death.’

Taking several steps backward, he sheathed his sword in the scabbard that hung from the belt around his waist, walked across the floor and up the wide staircase without a backward glance. Only when he reached the top of the stairs did he briefly look down at James before disappearing into the shadows.

There was a moment of total silence.

Then the director’s voice rang out. ‘Cut! And print!’ he shouted, adding jubilantly, ‘And that’s a wrap, guys!’

The actor called James scrambled to his feet; the director hurried across to confer with the cinematographer; everybody began talking at once, milling around the set, laughing, joking, slapping each other on the back.

Ignoring this sudden hullabaloo, Rosalind picked up her bag, hurried across the floor and up the staircase, seeking Gavin. He still stood in the shadows on the platform where the stairs ended. When she reached him she saw that he held his body rigidly; there was strain in his eyes and, underneath his make-up, gooseflesh speckled his face.

‘You’re hurting,’ she said.

‘A bit. I feel as if a steel hand is gripping the back of my skull. I need the collar, Rosie.’

Instantly, she pulled it out of her bag and helped him to put it around his neck. A week ago, on location in Yorkshire, Gavin had been thrown by his horse. He had sustained muscle and nerve damage to his neck and left shoulder, and had been in pain ever since.

As she fastened the collar he looked down at her gratefully and smiled, visibly relaxing now that the surgical collar was giving him support. He had discovered it helped him more than the pain-killers.

‘I couldn’t help worrying about you during the last scene,’ Rosie said, and shook her head wonderingly. ‘I don’t know how you got through it.’

‘That’s the magic…the magic of the theatre, of acting. Once I started the scene, the adrenaline began to pump like crazy and the pain disappeared. At least, I was no longer aware of the pain. I was swept up in the role of Warwick. I was submerged in him. I’d become him. The role always takes over, I guess, and I’m oblivious to everything when I’m acting.’

‘I know you are. Still, I did worry about you.’ She gave him a small smile. ‘After all these years, you’d think I’d know better, wouldn’t you? And anyway, I’ve always said your concentration is one of the secrets of your success.’ She took hold of his arm. ‘But come on, let’s go, Charlie’s waiting with James, Aida and the crew.’

As Rosie and Gavin walked down the staircase a cheer went up and the crew began to applaud enthusiastically. They were well aware that the star of their movie had been in agony for days, and they admired Gavin Ambrose, not only for his talent as an actor, but for his stoicism after his injury and for his total dedication to the film. He was a true professional who had been determined to finish the picture on time, and the crew wanted to show their admiration and appreciation.

‘You were great, Gavin, just great,’ Charlie Blake, the director, said, grasping his hand when Gavin and Rosie reached the bottom of the stairs. ‘And I have to tell you, I didn’t think you’d get it in three takes.’

‘Pity it wasn’t in one,’ Gavin replied dryly. ‘But thanks, Charlie, and thanks for letting us keep the fight going the way you did. It worked this last time around, didn’t it?’

‘You bet it did! I’m not going to cut a single second of footage.’

‘You’re a real trouper, Gavin,’ Aida Young, the producer, said, stepping forward, giving him a motherly hug, albeit very carefully because of his neck. ‘They don’t make them any better. You’ve got plenty of what it takes.’

Thanks, Aida, that’s a rare compliment indeed, coming from you.’ Gavin glanced over at James Lane, who had just acted in the fight scene with him, and grinned. ‘Congratulations, Jimbo.’

James grinned back. ‘And congratulations to you, mate.’

‘Thanks for making it easy,’ Gavin went on. ‘Fights are pretty tough to choreograph, and your timing couldn’t have been better. In fact, it was perfect.’

‘Let’s face it, we’re a couple of regular Errol Flynns,’ James answered, winking at Gavin. ‘It’s a pity Kevin Costner just did that remake of Robin Hood, or we might have had a stab at it ourselves.’

Gavin laughed and nodded, and then noticing Aida’s expression he exclaimed, ‘Hey, don’t look so worried, honey. My neck’s okay, honest it is. I’m even going to make the wrap party later.’

‘I’m glad, and that’s lovely,’ the producer said, then cautioned, ‘but only if you’re up to it.’

Gavin’s eyes swept over the crew. ‘Thanks,’ he said with genuine sincerity. ‘Thanks for everything, you’ve all been terrific, and we’re gonna have a real celebration later today.’

‘You bet we are, Gavin,’ the gaffer answered, and the crew surged around him, to tell him what a great guy he was, the best in the business, and to shake his hand.

A short while later, Rosie and Gavin left the huge sound stage where the Great Hall of Middleham Castle had been re-created, and went out into the corridor behind the set.

Here it was a jumble of cables, and scaffolding rising to the ceiling, the latter built to hold the Klieg lights used to provide simulated sunshine outside the castle walls. Carefully, they picked their way through the maze of wires and equipment; for different reasons, they were both relieved the last scene had been shot, that the film was in the can. Silently, lost in their own thoughts, they headed for Gavin’s quarters on the back lot.

‘Are you really going to New York at the end of the week?’ Gavin asked, hovering in the doorway of the bathroom which adjoined his dressing room, tightening the belt of his white terrycloth robe while staring at her intently.

Rosie looked up from her notebook, returning his long stare.

‘Yes,’ she said after a moment, and put the notebook back into her bag. ‘I have a meeting with some Broadway producers. About a new musical. And I have to see Jan Sutton as well. She’s thinking of putting on a revival of My Fair Lady.’

Gavin began to laugh. ‘That wouldn’t be very rewarding for you, would it?’ he asked, moving swiftly across the floor as he spoke. ‘After all, Cecil Beaton made an unforgettable statement with the costumes he designed for the original production. Everybody remembers them.’

‘That’s true, yes,’ Rosie agreed. ‘But, you know what, it could be very challenging. I wouldn’t mind tackling it…we’ll see what happens.’ She shrugged, and went on quickly, ‘I’m going to LA from New York. To see Garry Marshall. He wants me to do the clothes for his new movie –’

‘Instead of the Broadway shows, or as well as?’ Gavin interrupted.

‘As well as.’

‘Rosie, you’re crazy! ‘It’s too much! You’re killing yourself with work these days. Why, this year alone you’ve done two West End plays and my film, and let’s face it, this one hasn’t been easy. In fact, it’s been very demanding, to say the least. Is it going to be the same again next year? Three or four projects? Enough’s enough, for God’s sake.’