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"Lucrezia," whispers her mother, all the life gone from her eyes today. "Lucrezia Borgia." She combs the golden hair, catches it, twists it into plaits and sets in artfully about her head, secures it by golden clasps and diamond pins. "Lucrezia... Sforza."

At this, Lucrezia feels her heart sink and she starts up from the stool.

"No," she murmurs, her lips barely moving. She turns to face her mother, drinking deep those black eyes. "I will always be a Borgia, won't I? Lucrezia Borgia. Not Sforza. Not that." Her voice is strong for a moment but then her lips tremble and tears prick her eyes and she rushes into her mother's embrace, sobbing like an errant child.

"Oh, my sweet girl," whispers Vannozza, her voice awash with her own grief. "Oh, my sweet, honeyed girl." Tears begin in her own eyes now. "You are supposed to be happy. It is your wedding day."

"How can I be happy when it means leaving all I love behind?" she says into the shoulder of her mother's gown. "You and Papa . . . and Cesare."

"You must be a strong girl now, Crezia," whispers her mother. "The strong girl I've always taught you to be." She draws Lucrezia back from her arms and looks her child in the eyes. "This is your fairytale, Lucrezia. He is your prince, and he will marry you this day, and dance with you this eve . . . and carry you away to a beautiful castle in the morrow."

Lucrezia's eyes are huge, shining with fear and sadness, but she smiles. The dear, sweet girl smiles.

"It is my fairytale," repeats Lucrezia, her voice happier, but in her eyes the fear still dances. "And it is for my Borgia blood."

"Ah, of course," says her mother, the smile small that graces her lips. "Always for your Borgia blood."

Lucrezia sits back upon her stool, playing with the folds of her chemise with her ringed fingers. Her head feels heavy with all her hair bound atop it and as she raises her gaze to look into her mother's eyes in the mirror her neck begins to hurt and starts to mirror the throb of her heart.

"And you will be there on this happiest of days," says Lucrezia, her voice dropping back to a whisper. "You and Papa will see me walk down the aisle of St Peter's."

At this, Vannozza lets out a sudden sob, half-muffled behind her hand.

"What?" questions Lucrezia, searching her mother's face with worry. "What is it that makes you cry so?" She starts up from her stool again but Vannozza's hands suddenly come down upon her shoulders and press her down. In silence, her mother resumes the patient dressing of her hair. "Are you not happy to see your only daughter married?" Lucrezia's voice is uncertain and lost, tremulous as the parting clouds rushing across the dawn-lit sky outside.

Vannozza breathes deeply. "I am happy to see you married," she says finally. "The happiest." She smiles widely. "And when you walk along the aisle of St Peter's in your gown of gold and with your pretty hair, I will be the proudest mother in all of Italy . . . but I shall not see it."

Lucrezia's smile falls. "What do you mean you shall not see it?"

"When you are married, my love, I shall be tending the doves of my cote and throwing birdseed to the skies." Her voice remains even and light, but her hands begin to shake as she continues to stab the diamond pins into the golden tresses.

"You . . . you will not be at my wedding?" asks Lucrezia, her voice small and incredulous. "But you are my mother! You must be there, you have to be there." Tears rake her cheeks. "I need you there, Mama, more than any of the others."

"The pope has decreed it, my love," murmurs Vannozza, her voice rising high as she controls her tears. "And it is the pope I must obey. He would hate for my reputation to taint the power of display and dilute the potency of Borgia blood."

"He would deny you because of your past?" repeats Lucrezia angrily. "Without you he would have no Borgia blood to marry off!" She means to sound wilful and strong, but her voice betrays her and her shoulders soon shake beneath her sobs. Where is Cesare for comfort when I need him?

"Hush, my Crezia," whispers her mother. "Do not worry yourself so." She smooths the tendrils of hair loose either side of Lucrezia's face. "It is a man's world we live in, and a man will do what he will, not what he must. He will barter and sell, trade and steal. And in his eyes, we women remain only the currency that binds the great men of Rome and Italy together." She kisses the top of Lucrezia's feathery head of hair. "We know differently, you and I, of course we do. But we must endure, my love. We must endure these plots of men and marriage and survive. And you must do it now for your – "

"For my Borgia blood," answers Lucrezia, her tears drying angrily on her cheeks. "For my scheming, sorry Borgia blood."

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