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allowed to marry for love and not politics.  After all, Darrick was the son of a common blacksmith, himself from a long line of pot-makers.  There was no royalty in her fiancé's blood whatsoever.  For this reason, Gabriella had spent years refusing to acknowledge what everyone else had known immediately: that they were meant for each other.  As a girl, she had merely seen a dirty common boy, only permitted into the royal school because his parents had made a hefty tithe toward his education.  Despite the sacrificial gesture of his parents, the boy had been insolent and brash, completely unimpressed by Her Royal Highness, Princess Gabriella.  This had infuriated her, of course, and launched a rivalry that burnt (on her part) until they'd been sixteen years old.
    It had all changed on the day that Darrick had defeated Gabriella in a practice duel.  This had left her speechless with fury, since none of the other boys had ever bested her before.  She had stormed outside, her face brick red with embarrassed indignation, and thrown her wooden practice sword into the grass.  When Constance had tried to soothe her, Gabriella had nearly pushed her down the brook hill.  Finally, unable to control herself, she had cornered Darrick between the bell tower and the castle wall and demanded that he show her the proper respect.
    "I am the Princess of Camelot!" she had rasped hoarsely, leaning into his face.  "Bow to me!  Show me the respect that I deserve!"
    She had known even then that it was a pathetic, stupid thing to say.  No true princess ever had to command her subjects to bow to her.  Darrick didn't bow, but he didn't mock her either.
    "You want me to let you win the duels every time like all the other blokes just because you're the Princess?" he'd asked, squinting seriously at her.  "Because if I were you, I'd want a better kind of respect than that.  I'd want to be honoured for who I am, not just for my last name."
    "How dare you?!" Gabriella had seethed.  "You're just a blacksmith's son!"
    "I'm the son of the best blacksmith in Camelot," Darrick had replied, lifting his chin.  "That's no small feat.  There's pride in that, you should know.  If my father hadn’ t worked so hard to get me into the Royal Academy, I'd have been content to be come a blacksmi th like him and earn the same honour for my skills.  What about you, Princess?  You wish for me to respect you like all the rest, bowing to you in class but laughing at you behind your back?  Or do you want me to honour you for true, for the girl you are and the woman you're becoming?"
    Gabriella had not known what to say to that.  It had never even occurred to her that the others had let her win duels simply because she was the Princess, or that their respect for her was anything but genuine.  She'd wanted to argue with Darrick, but suddenly, horribly, she saw that he was right.  As far as the rest of her classmates were concerned, there was nothing to her but a title.  She'd simply stared at him, first with affronted anger, and then with shocked dismay.  Finally, shamefully, she had turned and stalked away from him.
    Before she had reached the corner of the bell tower, however, Darrick had spoken again.
    "I like you, Gabriella," he'd said, his voice cool and thoughtful.  "Not because you are the Princess, but because you are… special.  There's something about you that I can't forget.  There's more to you than anyone else sees."
    Gabriella had stopped at his words.  "You should not say such things," she had said without turning around.
    "You feel the same way about me, I would wager," he'd commented in a lower voice.
    Gabriella had turned quickly and looked back at him.  She'd expected him to be grinning at her, mocking her, but he wasn't.  He'd merely looked at her calmly and then gone on.
    "If you did not feel the same for me, you would not care so much, I think.  You'd just ignore me.  Do you know what I think, Gabriella?  I think we are