She stood near one of the huge stone pillars, a little to one side in the shadows, watching the fight.

      The woman, whose name was Rosalind Madigan, was taut with nerves. Her hands were clenched at her sides and she held her breath; then her lips parted slightly in anticipation and anxiety surfaced in her eyes.

      Metal struck metal as swords clashed.

      The warriors battled on. They were fencing to the death; she knew there could be only one winner.

      Brilliant light, penetrating the windows set high in the castle walls, glanced off their swift and lethal swords. Gavin, the smaller of the two, was slender, supple and fleet of foot. He went on the offensive, moving with great speed, his rapier thrusting forward dangerously. He drove his opponent back…farther back across the stone floor of the vast Great Hall. Suddenly he had the advantage.

      James, the other knight, taller, broader, more cumbersome of body, was now pinioned in a corner, his back pressed close to the wall, a mixture of fury and fear blanching his face.

      To the woman, it seemed that the fight would be over sooner than she had anticipated. It was perfectly obvious to her that Gavin was about to triumph. Then, much to her amazement, James managed, somehow, to shift his stance, ever so slightly but just enough to manoeuvre his bulk into a new position. Unexpectedly, he lunged forward purposefully, and she sucked in her breath. He now had the advantage.

      Gavin, somewhat taken by surprise, was thrown into a defensive position. Surely this was not the way it was meant to be, she thought, and leaned forward, her eyes riveted on the two men.

      Gavin moved backward swiftly, and with his usual dexterity, as nimble as a dancer, he parried James’s thrusts with immense skill and strength.

      James went on lunging after him, breathing heavily, brandishing his sword with equal expertise, but he was not quite as light on his feet as Gavin.

      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