One of the greatest love triangles in all of history and literature, and not a single love scene.
That wasn't true. There was a love scene, only not for Ioan. Ioan didn't even get to watch - it was closed set that day. They always closed the set when a love scene was being filmed. It was supposed to give the actors more privacy, and in that respect it worked; but to Ioan, it gave the whole thing an air of pornography. Something secret to be shushed up and hidden away, like a dirty magazine under the mattress.
"It's good to be king." That's what Clive had said, and they'd laughed about it at the time. All three of them, Keira included. Keira was a sport, no doubt about it. She'd blushed and giggled and called them "horrible," but she'd had that wicked little glint in her eye that said she knew she was gorgeous. It took a special kind of woman to realize her own beauty; even more so to understand the power that beauty could hold over a man. All Keira had to do was flash that smile and sashay her hips, and her spell was complete.
Ioan spent that day of filming in his trailer, staring at the wall. Or rather, staring at the picture he brought out occasionally and pinned to his wall, when no one was around and he had some time to himself. He'd ripped it out of an issue of the Evening Standard, even before he'd learned Keira would be Guinevere to his Lancelot. The girl was reclining on a couch in a sinfully short blue satin dress, unzipped to the navel, her shadowed eyes beckoning to the camera like a lover.
They'd be shooting THE SCENE about now. Clive's hands on those ivory thighs; his lips brushing that alabaster column she called a neck. Her tapered, silky fingers tracing patterns on his shoulders. Her knees hitched up under his arms, heels pressed firmly into the small of his back…
Ioan wondered if she was a pixie. Keira had an otherworldly quality, which made her perfect for the role of the Pictish queen. Many people claimed the Picts were the genesis of the pixies - magical little people from the wild. Was it so hard to believe art imitating life? She'd certainly snared him in a spell as strong as any conjured by a Celtic mystic.
He groaned and turned away from the picture, staring instead at the door to his trailer, and cursed literature and myth. He cursed Malory and Tennyson, and Geoffrey of Monmouth. And he cursed himself, because Keira was no pixie, but she had somehow become Guinevere to his Lancelot, and life was cruel to so closely imitate art.
Clive was the king, and to the king went the spoils.
With a heavy sigh, Ioan turned back to his Keira picture. Well, if he was a knight he would be a knight to the hilt.
Leaning back on the pillows, he let himself be sucked into her photographic eyes as he ardently polished his sword.