The Provincial Election

By Nikita Catherine

Dubheasa O’Driscoll, known to her friends as Izzy, never imagined she would find herself in the race for Kingship. But when the High King of Ireland passes away unexpectedly, Izzy, a reluctant and unseasoned aristocrat, is thrust into the spotlight to uphold her family’s legacy and vie for the role of Provincial King.

As Izzy steps into this daunting arena, public scrutiny intensifies, and jealous rivals begin to unearth unsettling secrets about her family’s history. These revelations shake Izzy to her core, leaving her to grapple with doubts about her lineage. Is there truth to her competitors’ allegations, or do the dark deeds of her ancestors cast an unjust shadow over her?

Embarking on a journey fraught with challenges, Izzy must withstand the glare of the public eye, the rigors of the competition, and the weight of her newfound responsibilities. The Provincial Election chronicles her struggle to find her footing in a world where the line between friend and foe is blurred, and the burden of the past looms large.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Jun 21, 2024
• ISBN: 9781035848812

Nikita Catherine

Nikita Catherine is an author from Co. Tipperary, Ireland. She wrote her debut novel, The Tailor’s Daisy, during the first COVID lockdown when she had the time to invest in her love for writing. This started her passion for writing books, and she is currently working towards becoming a full-time writer. Her favourite genres to read and write are fiction, fantasy and history. Nikita loves including stories, myths and legends from Irish history along with the Irish language in her books. She is also a hobbyist photographer. She can be found on Instagram at @author_nikita_catherine.

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About the Author

Nikita Catherine is an author from Co. Tipperary, Ireland. She wrote her debut novel, The Tailor’s Daisy, during the first COVID lockdown when she had the time to invest in her love for writing. This started her passion for writing books, and she is currently working towards becoming a full-time writer. Her favourite genres to read and write are fiction, fantasy and history. Nikita loves including stories, myths and legends from Irish history along with the Irish language in her books. She is also a hobbyist photographer. She can be found on Instagram at @author_nikita_catherine.

Dedication

For the Irish history lovers and the Ireland that might have been.

And for all the little girls who wondered why there were no Irish princesses.

Copyright Information ©

Nikita Catherine 2024

The right of Nikita Catherine to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781035848805 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781035848812 (ePub e-book)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published 2024

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd®

1 Canada Square

Canary Wharf

London

E14 5AA

Acknowledgement

Wow, where to start with the list of people! Thank you to my family for always supporting me in my writing. Nanny – how I wish you were here to see my books getting published. To my extended family who were so supportive of my writing career thank you, thank you, thank you. Thank you to my friends who I know are always in my corner. I will always be in yours. In particular, Dan and his lovely family for their amazing support. Denise and Christopher for being such great supporters and friends. The book club girlies: Kathleen, Michelle and Leanne – I really appreciate everything ye have done for me and I don’t have the words to thank ye enough. A special thank you to Leanne who supported my book like it was her own! You went above and beyond helping me find my feet in the ‘bookstagram’ community and supporting me on your review account @leanne_readsx. Thank you, Kathleen and Leanne, for taking the time to read a very rough draft of this and give me feedback on it. I am spoiled rotten with the list of friends I have thanked and I am incredibly lucky to have them as friends for life. And thank you to my dear friend Emilie Ocean who took the time to help me tidy and polish this manuscript up. I am extremely grateful and wish you every success and joy in your writing career. Thank you to my primary school principal Margaret Gleeson, for telling me she would be reading my book one day on my last day in her school. Thank you again for all of your support in my writing career.

Glossary

A

Ádh mór ort: ‘ah moor urt’ good luck to you.

Anam: ‘an-am’ the soul.

Aoife: ‘ee-fah’.

ArdRí: ‘aahrd-ree’ High King (either man or woman), King of all of Ireland.

ArdTánaiste: ‘aahrd-taw-nisht’ right hand man/woman of the ArdRí.

B

Banríon: queen.

Breitheamh: ‘breh-ev’ judge/judgement.

Bréone: ‘bray-ne’ little flame.

Bo-áire: ‘bow-ay-rah’ cattle/big farmer.

Brigiu: ‘brigg-oo’ hospitality, taken from the ‘hospitality’ custom of Brehon Law.

Brehon Law: Old Irish Celtic Law based on principals of peace between neighbours.

C

Cumal: ‘cool’ farming statement of wealth via number of livestock.

Cathaoirleach: ‘cah-hear-lock’ chairperson.

Cú Chulainn: ‘coo cul-ann’ Irish warrior legend, hound of Culann.

D

Díoltas: ‘deal-tas’ revenge.

Danú: ‘dan-oo’ Mother Goddess of Ireland.

Danann: ‘dan-awn’ Warriors of the Mother Goddess of Ireland.

Dubheasa: ‘do-vess-a’ dark beauty.

E

Étaín: ‘eh-teen’ or etain meaning jealousy.

F

Fionn: ‘fy-uhn’.

Fáinne Chladaigh: ‘fawn-ya clad-ig’ Claddagh ring.

Fáilte roimh, mhuintir na Mumhan: ‘fawl-te reev, mween-tier nah Moon’ welcome, people of Munster.

G

Gobnait: ‘gob-nat’ bringer of joy.

Glam Dichenn: ‘glam dyk-en’ a cursing poem.

Garda Síochána: ‘gar-dah she-oh-cawn-ah’ Irish police/Guardians of the Peace.

Granuaile/Grace O’Malley: ‘Graw-nya Wail’ Irish pirate queen.

I

Is é a fheiceáil a chreidiúint: ‘iss ay ah eck-all ah cred-oont’ seeing is believing.

L

Leife: ‘lay-fee’.

Lugh: ‘looh’.

M

Meas: ‘mass’ respect.

Meitheal: ‘meth-hail’ group/togetherness.

Méoine: ‘me-own-knee’ little paws, a pet name.

Maidin mhaith: ‘ma-jin wah’ good morning.

N

Ní Neart go cur le chéile: ‘knee nart guh cur leh kayla’ there is no strength without unity.

O

Ollamh: ‘ull-uv’ wise person.

Oc-áire: uc-ay-rah’ small farmer.

R

Rí: ‘ree’ King (either man or woman).

Ríshona ar do shon: ‘ree-shun-hah air doh shon’ happy for you.

Rían: ‘reen’.

Roisín: ‘row-sheen’.

Rúin: ‘roon’ secrets.

S

Slán agus bannacht: ‘slawn agg-oos ban-acht’ goodbye and farewell.

Saor: ‘saor’ Free.

Sláinte: ‘slwan-che’ cheers.

Senchus Mór: ‘sen-kus moor’ one of the first written accounts of Brehon Law, it had always been word of mouth via Druids before written. Similar to the Book of Kells.

Seamus: ‘shay-muss’

T

Teaghlaigh Nemed: ‘chye-lig nem-ed’ Noble families.

Tánaiste: ‘tawn-ish-te’ right hand man/woman of the Rí. Second in command.

Tuath: ‘too-hah’ small kingdom.

Tadhg: ‘tie-G’.

Tiobóid: ‘tio-bo-id’.

Prologue

I had been properly asleep for mere minutes when the hurried, frantic knocking on my door started. Sighing into my pillow I stayed as still as I could, hoping my mother would presume I was in such a deep sleep, nothing could wake me, and I should be left until morning. However, she did not. Knocking, knocking, and more knocking. I grumbled and muttered to myself—peeling my face off the pillow, wiping an embarrassing bit of drool from my cheek and dragging my fingers through my hair.

"This better be important," I muttered to myself, storming from my bedroom into my private little sitting room.

What? I snapped, flinging the door open dramatically. I was not a morning person. I was certainly not a four-thirty-in-the-morning person.

Hello, Izzy. My mother’s gangly and awkward secretary, Cillian, was outside my door. A mis-shaped, stripy dressing gown hanging off of him, tufts of hair sticking out all around his head and his glasses so askew on his face there was no way he could see through his right eye. Apologies for disturbing you. He seemed distressed. He shifted his weight from foot to foot and was in a continuous loop of wringing his hands. Grey slippers—had he really driven his way up here in grey slippers?

What’s wrong? My voice was rough and scratchy as I took in his frazzled appearance. Then reasoning came to the front of my mind. Why had Cillian come to call me this early in the morning and not my mother, unless… Mother of Danú, is Mum—

No, no, no, he waved my panic off. She is in her office. But you must join her immediately. She is distraught. Well, of course she is. They were friends. Everyone is in shock at the moment, but there is so much for us to get ready for. We will have a whole month of ceremonies and events… He droned on. Ranting and ranting about the work the O’Driscoll household had ahead of them, not yet telling me what for.

Cillian? My interruption went unnoticed. He began to mutter and murmur about official statements and speeches. Cillian, I yelled snapping him out of his downward spiral of worrying.

Yes? He gave me a wide-eyed, bewildered look.

What. For. I hissed through gritted teeth. Mum would tick me off about my manners if she heard me, but for a secretary who wrote her speeches and arranged all her public appearances, he was not great at getting to the point himself.

Oh… he gasped. Oh yes! Izzy… his shoulders slumped and he sighed sadly. Izzy, the high king is dead.

***

The Provincial Election is a story taking place in an Ireland never invaded. What if Ireland had been independent its entire history? Our traditions, our language, our beliefs, Brehon Law—all given the course of history to develop into a modern democratic society.

The traditional feudal methods of ruling of each of the provinces, once passed between the noble families of Ireland, have been adopted to a fair democratic vote between candidates descended from the old ‘noble families’. Every time a Rí (King) dies, the candidates compete within the provinces to be voted the next king. After each province elects their king, the four kings of the four provinces enter another, final election—for the position of ArdRí (High King) of Ireland.

Dubheasa O’Driscoll never expected to be competing for Rí of Munster—now she must navigate the public, the competition and the pressure of being a candidate in the provincial election.

1. Slán agus Bannacht

Goodbye and Farewell

It was disgustingly hot. The end of April brought us our first heat wave of the summer, right on the lead-up to the final farewell ceremony. Here we all stood. My mother’s era of government—the high king’s court—and the next generation. My generation. Hundreds of the noble blooded of Ireland—fathers and sons, mothers and daughters all lined up dutifully, paying their respects. Camera crews, journalists, and photographers make up another large group—huddled to the side, watching us all carefully. Finally, ArdRí Michael Smith’s favourite charities, missionaries and representatives from schools and hospitals across his province added at least another hundred to the crowd.

I plucked the collar of my wool shirt, pulling it from my sweaty torso in hopes it would cool me down. No luck. There was no cool breeze to give me a break from the heat.

Hmph! Rían O’Mahony tutted, giving me a sharp look out of the corner of his eye. Oh dear! How will I carry on knowing his noble precious-ness disapproves of me?

It is with both joy and sadness that I think back to the last time we buried an ArdRí, ArdTánaiste Fiona, ArdRí Smiths right-hand woman, gave a watery smile to the crowd. She was the only member of Smith’s council that genuinely missed him. The speeches from the others were much too formal—they always mentioned their sons or daughters who would be running in the next election. But Fiona always seemed genuinely heartbroken to have lost a friend that she stood beside for twenty-eight years.

"Michael was barely twenty. The ArdRí before him had died in December. The funeral and the month of mourning ceremonies all across Ireland were in the frost and snow—and Mike hated the cold with passion. At the farewell ceremony, he turned to me and said, ‘Fiona, if I win any of these elections, and I die in the winter tell the country to go about their business for six months as if I’m alive and bury me in the summer. Bury me under pink and orange skies with fireflies and cold lemonade.’ He was always quite poetic, she trailed off, getting lost in her memories. As it always was, his timing is impeccable. She laughed softly, tears welling in her eyes. Rest well, our beloved leader, my dear friend. ArdRí Smith. Slán agus bannacht!"

Slán agus bannacht. Goodbye and farewell. The crowd repeated the phrase in perfect unison. The uilleann pipes began screeching the national anthem. Cameras swooped over the crowd staring stoically ahead at the sunset above Newgrange, marking the end of an era with one court and the beginning of a vicious fight that would start the next election campaign.

I had never expected to be in the race for king. The reign of a king was supposed to last a lifetime, not half of one. It should have been my grandchildren running to be the next rulers of Ireland. However, a blood clot had formed, dislodged and travelled to ArdRí Smith’s brain before he made it to the doctor’s appointment for the pain in his leg. I was now expected to forget about my quiet life working in my mother’s stables while I ‘found myself’—I have no choice but to dedicate the next few months of my life to running in an election.

I sighed quietly, staring ahead at the silhouette of Newgrange against the evening sun. I would be a part of the new government, regardless of who won the election to be the king of Munster. No matter what I chose to do with my life after I waited the election out, I would constantly be pulled back to Munster, to Ireland. Attending events, giving speeches, dancing with foreign aids at balls, giving out medals at national games, and signing in new laws. Some of the many, many responsibilities attached to my bloodline that I now had to honour. Unconditionally.

Dubheasa! Rían snapped my name the moment the last note screamed out seizing the chance to scold me before I could slip away. Do try to refrain from tutting and sighing during our campaign. It is most unsettling listening to the sound of someone privileged, someone born to nobility, commiserating with themselves over their responsibilities. Rían was one of the four candidates to run in Munster, alongside me.

We had grown up in the same circles. His father was the Rí of Munster, my father was his Tánaiste, his second in command, for a short few years before he died. Rían was average height, blonde and lanky with beady brown eyes that were usually sneering or glaring at someone. Head high, nose stuck in the air, Rían marched through life as if he were Mother Danu’s gift to Ireland.

Whatever, Rían, I brushed him off in a monotone voice, making myself sound bored and nonchalant. I hated giving him the satisfaction of knowing he bugged me. We were about to spend the next four months campaigning alongside one another. I had no doubt Rían would take any sigh, any eye roll or any harsh word from me and tell the entire province.

"When I am elected as the Rí of Munster, I will need my own Tánaiste for my Munster office, and when I get elected ArdRí of the country, I will get to pick another Tánaiste for that office, he smiled condescendingly at me. I can’t decide between shoving you into a very unimportant role in an awfully boring department—so you and I never see each other—or making you my Munster Tánaiste so you have to answer to my every beck and call for the rest of my life. If I were you, I’d play nicely. Something more agreeable for the both of us will be chosen for you."

You might be able to manipulate the people into giving you your daddy’s job Rían, but the other three-quarters of Ireland have not watched you fake interest in charity, sincerity in service or care for whatever misfortunate soul that had to shake your hand. They have their own leaders to support. People who don’t feel entitled to the job like you. You might be guaranteed king of the province, but there’s no promise you will get king of the country.

As we were not intended to run for election, many of us had not prepared for a career in government. ArdRí Smith was expected to sit on the throne for another thirty years at least. Many other candidates rushed to cram all the information they could about Brehon law, the royal Irish court, and domestic and foreign policy in the downtime between burial ceremonies over the last month. Now there were a few smug know-it-alls, like Rían, who had planned on working in government for their parents and to carry on the same names constantly being in power. Those kids made their superior knowledge known to the rest of us.

Hm, let’s see, he pulled a thoughtful face, looking around. Singling out the popular candidates in the other provinces, My competition… ah yes. Cormac O’Sullivan—the predicted winner of the throne of Leinster. A big lover of fishing and sea life. We all know he will put every penny of funding into that. No other province will vote him for ArdRí.

"Then we have Lugh Connors. She will definitely be voted in up in Ulster. Very quiet. Hardly social at all and overall boring. People won’t want her representing us internationally," as he hurled insults at her, Lugh put down a full glass of champagne, glanced around inconspicuously and began to make her way to the edge of the gathering—trying to slip away from the journalists and other candidates.

"And there’s Brannon Quinlan in Connacht—nephew of ArdTánaiste Fiona. As uninterested, dim-looking, and simple as they come. No one wants a Neanderthal on the throne. I will win the country’s hearts Dubheasa, and without much trying. I am charismatic, charming, and good in front of the cameras. You have no choice as the only candidate from the O’Driscoll family to serve our country.

Losing to me does not mean you’re off the hook and back to shovelling horse shit. I will have the final say in any position you fancy in the Munster court for the rest of your life. Keep me happy, for your own sake, he tried to stand up straight to make himself taller as he walked off, to seem more intimidating. It almost made him the same height as me.

Izzy, my mother hissed in my ear, half ducking behind me, trying to get my attention while hiding from the crowd of politicians and press. Let’s go! I’m being plagued by journalists. My mother, Gobnait O’ Driscoll, was rumoured to have had ‘relations’ with ArdRí Smith during the last ArdRí election… while engaged to my dad. During that election, there was a lot of fuss in the media and questions about the unconfirmed romance.

Romantic relationships during elections were frowned upon for fear of distraction from the main job. A romantic relationship where cheating and a love triangle were involved, even more so. It was a load of rubbish. Both Michael and my mother ignored the press, married their fiancé’s, and moved on with their retrospective positions. However, with ArdRí Smith’s sudden death, the story had resurfaced, and every news channel and journalist was vying for the exclusive from the heartbroken ‘ex-girlfriend’.

We slipped through the crowd murmuring our goodbyes to my mother’s colleagues and acquaintances. Back at the car, she instructed our driver, Seamus, to head for home. Neither of us wanted one more morning of cameras flashing and people shouting at her outside our hotel in Dublin.

What did Rían want, méoine?

"To remind me of the unlikableness of his competition for ArdRí. His untouchable power ‘when’ he wins. And to encourage me to do whatever he asks during his campaign because he ultimately decides my life’s work," I rolled my eyes, letting my seat down hoping to fall asleep soon.

"In all honesty, he knows you. He must realise you aren’t going to serve him for the rest of his life, my mother sighed and began pulling pins out of her updo, letting her greying chocolate brown hair fall to her shoulders. He is nothing but a spoilt and entitled brat, Izzy. Controlling his selfishness on TV when he goes looking for the spotlight is one thing. But when the election begins, he will be watched constantly… It will all seep through the cracks. Who knows, he might sabotage his race for Munster," she nudged me with her elbow and wiggled her eyebrows, teasing me with the thought of me running the province someday.

He’s the people’s favourite, the rest of us will get one week’s worth of attention and then he will be their main focus.

Be careful how you step during that one week, my mother frowned down at me. One false move and there’s rumours and stories flying all over the place. Take it from someone that knows. I had always joked with her about her ‘romance’ with ArdRí Smith, but it wasn’t until I saw the stress she was put under the last month that I began to feel bad for her. Horrible articles and horrendous nicknames all over the news. And all when she was just after turning twenty and getting engaged to her high school sweetheart. It must have been awful.

The other two Munster candidates are absolute drama queens, I shrugged Blathnaid is in love with herself. She will sing her own praises and make up nasty rumours about everyone else. Étaín hates Blathnaid and Rían with a burning passion and keeps trying to ‘out’ their true colours instead of canvassing for herself. She will just look like the green-eyed monster to the darling of Munster. No one cares about me, Mum. One week out of the year’s quarter and it will be all over with. The rest of it will just be trailing around after Rían on the press tour and trying not to look too bored or too sick of him. Her frown melted into a smile as she thought back on the last Provincial Election, almost thirty years ago.

Oh, I remember the gossiping and the tales told during your father’s election. Betting on the who would win and who were the ones who were waiting it out because they didn’t want to be there. I’m glad you’re flying under the radar, méoine. Keep your head down, and stay quiet. Politics is celebrity now. Thank Danú you have no major parts to play in it.

The next day marked the beginning of the provincial election. Straight from the mourning and right into the fighting.

I sat at the dining table swishing the tea around my mug staring into space—everything and nothing on my mind at the same time. My mother brought in the post handing me my large, padded, fancy envelope—ArdTánaiste Fiona Quinlan’s family crest in the seal on it.

Go on then, she picked up my butterknife and put it in my hand. She sat so close to the corner of the table she was basically right beside me. I slowly cut the envelope open, knowing the contents. Dreading them. I pulled out the heavy piece of paper stamped with gold from the desk of the ArdTánaiste. Large cursive writing sentencing me to what I knew would be the longest three months of my life.

This is official notice to

Dubheasa O’Driscoll

That they are now required, by our Brehon Law, to present themselves as a candidate for the election of the next generation of Ríthe.

You are required to present yourself for the Province of:

Mumhan—Munster.

Under Brehon Law, each family from the noble bloodlines must present a candidate in the next generation to run for the honour of the reigning monarch governing Ireland.

Signed: Fiona Quinlan—ArdTánaiste na hEireann.

I looked up from the certificate at my mother—who was forcing herself