So a Norwegian prince – well, the son of the crown princess, Marius Borg Høiby, a name that will now echo in the annals of Scandinavian disgrace – has been found guilty of rape. The verdict is in; the gavel has fallen. And what, pray, does the British monarchy have to say about this?
Precisely nothing. Not a whisper from Buckingham Palace, not a cautious clearing of the throat from Kensington. The silence is not golden; it is leaden, a dull thud in the face of a seismic event that should, by all rights, provoke some comparative introspection.
The Windsors, who have weathered their own storms of scandal, have chosen to retreat into that peculiar British trait of studied obliviousness. It is a posture that reeks of decadence, a refusal to engage with the creeping rot that afflicts all hereditary institutions. The Norwegian royal family, already a diminished thing, must now confront a moral reckoning.
Yet the British monarchy, ever the master of strategic silence, stays mute. Is this prudence or cowardice? Perhaps it is the quiet desperation of a house that knows its days are numbered.
The parallels to the late Roman Empire, where the patrician class ignored the barbarians at the gate, are too obvious to ignore. But let us not pretend that this silence is innocent. It is a calculated omission, a tacit admission that the British crown has its own skeletons, and it would rather not rattle the closet doors.
The comparison between the two royal houses is inevitable: both are anachronisms, both rely on public deference, both now face the rotting fruit of entitlement. The Norwegian verdict is a mirror, and the British monarchy has turned away. If this continues, the silence will speak louder than any verdict.
The court of public opinion is far less forgiving than a jury in Oslo.
