Elegy for Francis, Duke of Dukes | An Alternate History

Dreams of the Sea

FIRST STANZA, VERSE III

From an early age, both Francis and myself dreamed of ships on stormy seas. A vaguely familiar face always stands atop the mast, knife in hand. His unseeing eyes gaze unto the endless horizon, unable to see anything beyond that sacred line. The point where the heat of the sun meets the cold of the sea, always just too far away to reach, was called Ginnungagap by the Northmen. It was a void as empty and vast as the heavens above. Were anyone able to reach it, that man would be as great as one of their forgotten gods.

Such heretical musings would be the death of me, were I not already at its doorstep. Judgement can be saved for St. Peter. Our heresy of two was born with us and will die with us all the same. In any case, these dreams pushed Francis steadily towards a maritime lifestyle. By the age of fifteen, he was already pining for the freedom of the open sea.

He was given a ship, the Redeemer. It was of Spanish make, quite possibly the same one my ancestor and predecessor was a crew member of. From the hands of a madman in the depths of that vessel, this very book was stolen. Through the generations both artifacts passed, eventually finding their way into my hands. Something tells me that they were ancient even to their first owners.

Most likely the ship had been acquired via piracy, a favorite Breton pastime. Ships traveling across the Mediterranean could never be too safe as long as the flag with the black cross flew nearby. As eager as Francis was to begin his career of barbarism, he was only permitted to supervise peaceful trade.

The last thing Brittany-Normandy needed was the entirety of the known world finding out the Breton pirates had government support. Not that anyone doubted this conclusion, but it was inconvenient to deal with for everyone involved. Having the heir to the realm take part would push this polite fiction to its limit.

What struck him most about this central sea was the sheer diversity of peoples relying upon it for their livelihood. From the French warlords bickering over the shattered remains of an ancient kingdom to the African realms representing three lineages of Abraham, all lived and died along those ancient shores.

In the center of the Mediterranean stood a true gem in the rough. Malta was a little island polity under the control of the Spanish crown. A Regent Governor ruled there in the king's place as he was much too preoccupied with suppressing religious diversity in Iberia. That unpleasant man was always suspicious of Francis and his chaperones.

It was for this reason that Francis was never allowed near the island, a rule he was particularly unsatisfied with. He secretly conspired to visit all by himself, in a rowboat under the cover of night. By the time anyone noticed his disappearance, he was already well on his way to the forbidden place. "Malta, here I come!" was his cry.