a deeply instinctive desire to wrench off the plain gold ring adorning her left hand.
‘You’re married?’
‘I… I’m divorced,’ she managed curtly, frowning as Carew rushed into what she considered to be unnecessary explanations. ‘Sarah was married briefly to Benedict de l’Isle.’
‘Really?’ Darkly silvered eyebrows rose speculatively. ‘I know Ben quite well. I hadn’t realised he’d been married.’
‘I’m sure he wants to forget it as much as I do,’ Sarah told him, glaring at Carew. What on earth had he said anything for? He knew she abhorred all mention of her brief and all too disastrous marriage to Benedict de l’Isle. A marriage that had been over almost before it had begun. A marriage entered into through ignorance and folly on her part and reluctance and guilt on Benedict’s. How much reluctance she had discovered on the night of their wedding. Thank God Dale had been there to help her. Without him…
‘You’ve read the script. What do you think of it?’ Guy asked her, resuming his seat.
‘It’s marvellous.’ Her eyes glowed with conviction. ‘The whole thing’s so powerfully compulsive that I feel I almost know the writer. He makes you feel what’s written; experience Richard’s anguish, and understand all that he must endure. I…’ She broke off, feeling flustered as she realised Guy was watching her speculatively. ‘I’m sorry,’ she apologised awkwardly. ‘You must be used to this reaction by now.’
‘I’m certainly used to hearing the script praised,’ he agreed, ‘but you’re the first person I’ve come across to mention the actual writer with such emotion. Normally any emotion is reserved for the box office receipts, or star prestige,’ he added with dry cynicism. ‘You feel you could handle the part?’ He watched her carefully as he spoke, and Sarah sensed that his question was in some way a test.
‘I hope so. Joanna grows from a child to a woman during the course of the film. She falls in love with Richard’s squire as a child, but gives herself to him as a woman, knowing the price she must pay for her love is marriage to Raymond of Toulouse.’
‘I hear you flatly refuse to play any heavy sex scenes,’ Guy intervened, suddenly changing the subject. ‘Why?’
Sarah shrugged, her palms damp, fear cramping through her although she fought to control it. ‘Perhaps because I feel true sensuality is more effective for being implied than actually witnessed.’
‘Umm. I suspect the two actors who are to play Richard and his lover heartily feel the same thing. Unfortunately, as far as they are concerned the script calls for some decidedly physical scenes.’
‘Oh, but in the context of the script they’re…’ She broke off, flushed and confused, as Guy Holland turned to her.
‘Go on,’ he prompted, ‘they’re what?’
‘Almost hauntingly emotional,’ she responded hesitantly, unable to find the words to convey the terrible sadness that had gripped her when she read the script.
‘Let’s just hope the censors see it that way,’ Guy told her with another flash of dry humour.
They were shown into the restaurant and were halfway through their meal before he put Sarah out of her misery and confirmed that she had got the part.
‘You won’t be an entirely popular choice,’ he warned her, ‘but as far as I’m concerned, you’re the right one.’ He went on to discuss other members of the cast. Berengaria was to be played by a well known film star whose smoulderingly sensual nature was at such odds with Berengaria’s naïve innocence that Sarah could only hope that she was an excellent actress.
‘She wasn’t my choice,’ Guy told her, startling her by reading her thoughts, ‘but let’s just say she comes with the script, and I wanted it badly enough to agree.’
Sarah caught her breath. Did that mean that Gina Frey knew who had written the screenplay and was romantically involved with him?
It was a question she sensed would not be answered even if she asked, so instead she opened a discussion about filming sequence and dates and discovered that most of the filming was to be done in Spain, where there were enough castles, desert and empty spaces for them to be able to recreate the feel of the twelfth century.
After lunch they returned to Carew’s office to finalise details and sign contracts, promising that she would be in Spain for the end of the month.
‘After all,’ she commented to Carew when Guy had gone, ‘what’s to stop me?’
‘You’d better go out and buy yourself a ton of sunscreen,’ Carew warned her. ‘Guy won’t be too happy if your skin gets burned, and you’ll be filming all through the summer. I wonder why he wanted to know about your marriage?’ he added, eyeing her thoughtfully. Although he was basically a kind-hearted man, on occasions it irked him that Sarah was so resolute about not discussing her brief marriage. After all, Benedict de l’Isle was of sufficient importancé in the film world for his name to carry weight; Sarah could have used it. When she had first come to him he had read up on her press-cuttings, and it had been from them and not from her that he had learned of their affair while they were playing opposite one another in Shakespeare; she as Mary Fitton and he as Southampton, the man who ultimately destroyed her. They had been married at the end of the filming; there had been a party for all the cast, and then, within a week, it was all over. To quote Benedict de l’Isle, as many of the papers had done with evident glee, his new wife, like Mistress Fitton, had been unable to choose between her two lovers and in the end had chosen wrongly. He eyed Sarah obliquely. If de l’Isle had been speaking the truth, did that mean that she and Dale had been lovers, and if so…
Anxious to get back to her library books and her research, Sarah was oblivious to his thoughts. This part was a gift from the gods in more senses than one. Another twelve months without a decent part and who knows, she might have been on the verge of abandoning her career. But she had got the part, and she fully intended to leave her stamp on it; to be the Princess Joanna, spoiled darling of the greatest house in Christendom until the woman accepted what the child could not; that princesses were but pawns, bought and sold to bind allegiances.
THERE would be a car waiting for her at the airport, Guy had promised, and Sarah looked dazedly for it as she emerged from the terminal building, and into the slumbrous heat of the Spanish night.
Because it was the height of the tourist season, she had had some problems getting a flight and, in the end, had had to fly in on a late evening one. She was a relative newcomer to the cast, and she knew from what Guy had told her that some studio filming had already taken place, mainly the earlier scenes involving Richard as a youth and some of his clashes with his father. Telling herself that it was only natural that she should feel nervous, she searched the row of stationary cars, wondering which one was waiting for her.
‘Sarah! Sweetling!’
Even if she hadn’t recognised the tall, broad-shouldered man striding towards her, she would have recognised the endearment he had picked up when they filmed Shakespeare, and his name left her lips on a pleased cry as she hurried towards him.
‘Dale, put me down!’ she protested as he swung her up into his arms, kissing her theatrically, adding
