The arrest of Andrew Mountbatten-Windsor was, without a doubt, a shocking moment. The release by US officials of 3.5 million pages of documents regarding Mountbatten-Windsor’s longtime friend, the disgraced financier Jeffrey Epstein, have led to multiple allegations of wrongdoing on the part of the eighth in line to the throne – which he denies.
But as an expert in British and Commonwealth history, I’m baffled by some of the headlines claiming that this moment is “the worst constitutional crisis” in the modern age.
In fact, the affair pales in significance beside the abdication crisis of 1936. The latter has tended to be portrayed in the media as a romantic saga of forbidden love – with the young Edward VIII being forced to choose between the crown and his desire to marry his soon-to-be twice divorced lover, Wallis Simpson.
Yet in retrospect, it more resembles a rather genteel coup, with raised eyebrows taking the place of tanks on the palace forecourt.
A set of key establishment figures, including the prime minister, the archbishop of Canterbury and the editor of the Times, effectively used the marriage crisis to lever from the throne a monarch whose morals and judgement they distrusted.
There might have been room for a compromise on the matter. Edward raised the possibility of a “morganatic marriage” with Wallis, under the terms of which any offspring would not be in line to the throne. Yet prime minister Stanley Baldwin, who kept negotiations over the king’s future tightly under his own personal control, would not hear of this.
The stakes were infinitely higher than in 2026. Britain was still a great global economic and military power, and its monarch was the figurehead of an empire of more than 500 million people. The British government was deeply concerned that the damage done to the monarchy’s prestige could weaken its own authority overseas.
Meanwhile, at home, the right to vote for all adults was still a relatively new experiment. A government still dominated by the rural and urban elites worried about how working-class voters would react to a scandal at the pinnacle of Britain’s social hierarchy. Luckily for them, the British press and the BBC maintained a wall of silence around the king’s relationship with Simpson until just days before the abdication. This ensured that the government’s narrative dominated the headlines.
Ejecting Edward from the throne brought about the accession of his brother, whose debilitating shyness made him ill-suited to a public role.
The abdication crisis had concrete constitutional repercussions. In its immediate wake, the government of the Irish Free State, which had been granted dominion status by the Anglo-Irish Treaty of 1921, passed two bills designed to weaken ties with London and the crown.
They removed all mention of the king and his representatives from the Irish constitution, while allowing the monarch a limited role in the country’s diplomatic relations. The following year, the taoiseach (as he then became), Éamon de Valera, introduced a new constitution under which southern Ireland effectively became a republic in all but name.
The abdication crisis signalled very publicly that the monarch was obliged to follow the will of the of the civil authorities, even in matters relating to his private life. Arguably, this played an important role in the evolution of the British constitutional monarchy, helping to ensure its survival into the 21st century.
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Even the death of Diana, Princess of Wales, in 1997 certainly seemed at the time to present a more serious threat to the House of Windsor than the current scandal. In sharp contrast to the deferential restraint of the press in 1936, the media seemed determined to whip up public grief in ways that many observers found disturbing.
The mood of the moment found expression in hostility towards the members of the royal family, including Queen Elizabeth II herself, for their supposedly “unfeeling” response to the tragedy. Downing Street felt obliged to step in when the palace proved incapable of handling the public relations fallout of Diana’s death.
Is the monarchy under threat?
Recent polling has suggested that public confidence in the crown is at an all-time low. Yet although support for the outright abolition of the monarchy has grown in recent decades, it remains relatively low at only around 15%.
Furthermore, the crown is so deeply embedded in the British political system that no government – without a staggering amount of self confidence and a lot of time on its hands – is likely to embark on the task of extracting it.
By contrast, of course, it will be relatively simple to remove Mountbatten-Windsor from the line of succession in UK domestic legislation, although the British government will want to coordinate this with the other Commonwealth realms which could prove more complicated.
The royal family has time to redeem itself. And as Winston Churchill pointed out, it’s a mistake to ever let a good crisis go to waste.
Looking ahead to what may be a lengthy reign, Prince William, who has given strong hints that he is impatient with the status quo, has the perfect excuse when he accedes to the throne to sideline opponents of reform.
For a would-be reforming king, there’s plenty of low-hanging fruit. There’s the antiquated honours system with its embarrassing use of the label “empire”. There’s the headship of the now largely obsolete Commonwealth, with its own embarrassingly imperial connotations. And with less than half the population of England and Wales now describing themselves as Christian, renouncing the supreme governorship of the troubled Church of England seems long overdue.
Although the fate of a disgraced uncle may be relatively peripheral to all this, Mountbatten-Windsor is still a potent symbol of the dangers of business-as-usual. His fall might just be the crisis the royal family needs.
