It pains me to write this, truly it does. I am a monarchist to the marrow, and I take no pleasure in criticising the institution I revere.
But King Charles’s decision to strip his brother of his title, to reduce Prince Andrew to “Andrew Mountbatten Windsor,” is not an act of strength. It is an act of weakness, and one that will return to haunt the monarchy.
For the first time in living memory, the sovereign has wielded the scalpel of royal sanction not upon a subject, but upon his own blood. It sets a precedent as dangerous as it is unnecessary.
The people now know that the royal title, that ancient birthright which once seemed immutable, can be revoked by decree. And once that seal is broken, what next? A future monarch trimming away the troublesome, the unpopular, the insufficiently fashionable? The Crown should never be seen to bend to the gusts of public outrage. Yet now, it seems, it does.
The people now know that the royal title, that ancient birthright which once seemed immutable, can be revoked by decree.
If royal titles are now contingent on conduct rather than birthright, the hereditary principle is dead. The “cancellation” of Prince Andrew may prove not a cleansing, but the beginning of the end for the constitutional monarchy.
Also let us be clear: whatever his errors of judgement, Andrew has never actually been charged, let alone convicted, of any crime under British law. Yet his own brother has offered him up as a sacrifice to public opinion.
The fact of the matter is the scandal that felled Andrew rests on hearsay and innuendo, not indictment. Even the most salacious accusation, that, as a man in his thirties, he may have slept with a 17-year-old, would not, in this country, constitute a crime. Unwise? Yes. Gross? I think so. But criminal? It is not. Bad judgement is not a felony, nor is poor company a hanging offence.
The King’s brother is guilty, it seems, of proximity, of friendship with a man later unmasked as monstrous, and of having allowed that friendship to stain his reputation. But if association were a crime, Westminster and Davos alike would be in the dock.
Don’t mistake me. I am not painting Andrew as an angel, nor am I suggesting that Ms Giuffre invented her story out of whole cloth. And of course, any genuine victim of abuse deserves compassion and justice. But in this case, too many details simply refuse to align.
For what it’s worth, I know Lady Victoria Hervey, a long-time friend of Andrew’s, and I believe her. She has pored over this saga to the nth degree, armed with documentation and first-hand knowledge. Yet, predictably, the press prefers sensation to substance, narrative to nuance. Her voice is drowned out by the roar of a media that long ago decided which villain it wanted.
And now, in 2025, Ms Giuffre’s 2011 self-published novel, the one that once crept behind a veil of fictitious names, has been resurrected as a glossy, posthumous memoir. Marketed as a tale of “survival and justice,” it is, in truth, a global publishing windfall. Reports suggest the book will earn its handlers millions, a fittingly lucrative finale to a story that made Ms Giuffre, who died earlier this year, as famous as the man she accused. What began as an obscure curiosity has swelled into a global morality play, with certain shadowy figures now its most obvious beneficiaries.
But the King has decided to appease the mob. He has chosen to throw his brother to the wolves. How naive. Does King Charles not know that appeasement is never enough? The crowd’s appetite only grows. Today it is Andrew, tomorrow, it will be Harry. And after that, who knows? Perhaps even the monarchs themselves.
Does King Charles not know that appeasement is never enough? The crowd’s appetite only grows. Today it is Andrew, tomorrow, it will be Harry. And after that, who knows? Perhaps even the monarchs themselves.
Of course, Andrew’s story has never been one of glory. Born in the shadow of the throne, he played the supporting role fate assigned him – loyal, restless, sometimes reckless, but never disloyal. Yet it is his own family that has now turned him out. To take from him his title, his home, and his dignity is not justice; it is surrender, a sacrifice to the insatiable gods of public outrage.
And of course everyone seems to forget the years Andrew served his country, as a naval officer, as a veteran of the Falklands, as Britain’s Special Representative for Trade and Investment, a post he held at the behest of the Blair government. In those years, our entire political class was falling over itself to woo Beijing and the new global order. Now, with the benefit of hindsight, the media is also retroactively branding such diplomacy as moral failure. It’s a pile on…. fashionable revisionism masquerading as virtue.
The irony is cruel. Andrew and Harry, the two princes who actually served in uniform and risked their lives under fire, are now the only ones forbidden to wear their medals at ceremonial events. Meanwhile, the rest of the family gleam with ribbons earned mostly in committee rooms. The symbolism could hardly be more corrosive.
This decision to de-prince Andrew will not strengthen the monarchy; it will weaken it. Hugely. It signals to the public that the King’s justice is not rooted in principle, but in polling. The monarchy has endured for a thousand years because it stood above fashion, above fury, above the politics of the moment. The Crown’s majesty lies in its permanence. By disowning his brother to placate the clamour, Charles risks showing that even the monarchy now dances to the tune of TikTok.
Prince Andrew is not beyond reproach, but neither is he beyond redemption. He has not been tried in any court, nor found guilty of any crime, and yet he has been punished as though he were. And redemption, not eradication, is supposed to be the Christian virtue that crowns our sovereigns. The King might remember that mercy is also a form of strength, and that family, however wayward, remains family still.
If this episode proves anything, it is that the British monarchy survives not through punishment, but through forgiveness. The people respect firmness; they revere magnanimity. Strip a man of everything, and you do not restore trust, you invite more bloodletting.
For Andrew, the title may be gone. But for Charles, the judgment of history has only just begun.
Claire Bullivant
