here is a small community of islanders in Vanuatu who believe in the divinity of Prince Philip. The cult is thought to have emerged before Prince Philip himself visited Vanuatu in 1974: members are in mourning. Much amusement has been had in the British press over the years, gently (or not so gently) mocking this belief. Last Saturday, though, when millions of Britons watched the reverential coverage of Prince Philip’s funeral, there was cause to reflect on the beliefs that underpin royalty in our own society. Despite the technological and societal transformation of the world since Philippos of Greece was born on a dining table in Corfu in 1921, the place of British royalty in public life – and in the public imagination – is as strong as ever. Reactions on social media to the coverage of Philip’s funeral varied. Some were empathetic and emotional, imagining the Queen’s grief as she sat alone. Others scrutinised the younger royals for drama: there was great excitement when Princes William and Harry, whose divergence in recent years has been the subject of much speculation, briefly spoke to each other. (Royal-watchers attempting to lip-read the conversation were stymied by attendees’ face masks.) Others were dismissive, making flippant comments or jokes. Royal fandom, like many fandoms, attracts an anti-fandom that is equally strong in its convictions – though not in its numbers. The BBC received 110,000 complaints from viewers who felt there was too much coverage of Philip’s death, while 13.6 million watched his funeral in the UK alone. Longstanding narratives about the royals are fiercely disputed: there are deep divisions between those who think, for instance, that the Duke and Duchess of Sussex have been wronged by a racist and restrictive system and those who think them feckless. In previous decades, there were those who thought Diana, Princess of Wales, had been wronged, and those who thought her feckless; the same applied to Princess Margaret before her. This dynamic plays out in every generation: did they fail royalty or did royalty fail them? The belief in “good” royals requires the creation of “bad” royals, for there can be no light without shade. The “bad” royals acquire their own fans, who create defensive counternarratives. Philip himself was often cast as one of those “bad” royals during his lifetime – though death, as with Diana, can be spectacularly redemptive. During the BBC’s funeral coverage, commentators remarked on his care for his regiments, the centrality of his faith, his profound devotion as a husband. All of these things may well be true. They would have to be said, though, whether they were true or not. Repeating these sentiments is a form of community bonding among supporters of the “good” royals. They affirm the fundamental theme promoted by modern British royalty that separates “good” from “bad” royals: duty. The Queen announced this theme on her 21st birthday, when she was still Princess Elizabeth: “I declare before you all that my whole life, whether it be long or short, shall be devoted to your service and the service of our great imperial family to which we all belong.” She has maintained it impeccably ever since. Throughout modern British history, we have applauded monarchs like Victoria who appear solid and conscientious, and do not seem to be enjoying themselves too much. Those who reject their duty, such as Edward VIII, or who care more for their own fun, such as George IV or Edward VII, are not widely appreciated. Public perceptions and judgments can be unfair. George IV, for instance, was universally condemned as a spendthrift for such expenses as £8,216 on coronation jewellery. Victoria spent £158,887 on jewellery from Garrard alone, mostly for herself, and got away with it. The narratives we build around royalty are, of course, largely fantastical; comparisons to fairy tales, soap operas or fan fiction are frequently made. This does not mean they are trivial. In a monarchy, our feelings about the royals reflect and reinforce our own social and political identities, and how we relate to the state itself. This is just as true for anti-monarchists as it is for those who fervently admire one set of royals or another. It must be bizarre to be a royal at the centre of this relentless attention: you’re given every material advantage imaginable, yet have little freedom in how you use it. Philip chafed against this at points. If people did not want a monarchy, he remarked in 1994, “there’s a perfectly reasonable alternative, which is a republic”. Discussing the monarchy as it was, he went on: “I don’t think anyone would actively volunteer for this sort of job.” Except he effectively did, when he married Princess Elizabeth in 1947. Like scores of royal consorts before and after him, he found the reality of royalty was quite different to how anyone outside imagines it. “Philip was a moderniser who became more traditional,” wrote Brian Groom in his obituary of the prince in the Financial Times. The young Philip hoped to streamline and open up the monarchy, inviting the BBC in to make an intimate documentary, Royal Family, in 1969. Later, as his own relationship with the media grew fractious, he regretted having made his family so accessible. The documentary has not been shown on British television since the 1970s. It was leaked briefly on YouTube earlier this year, and swiftly removed. “Above all things our royalty is to be reverenced, and if you begin to poke about it you cannot reverence it,” Walter Bagehot wrote in 1867 of Queen Victoria’s constitutional role. “Its mystery is its life. We must not let daylight in upon magic.” It is an elegant line, but the position of royalty in society is more complex than mystery. The royals are simultaneously an ordinary family and an extraordinary phenomenon: we know them intimately and not at all. When Bagehot was writing, modern British republicanism was reaching its height and “reverence” was far from universal. In the early 1870s, republican clubs were formed across Britain. The Liberal MP Sir Charles Dilke was among their supporters. The popular press of the time could be astonishingly intrusive. Since then, the evolution of television and social media has exposed the magic of royalty to the glare of daylight over and over again. Anyone who imagines that this has diminished interest in royalty clearly does not follow the media. The narratives and counternarratives of “good” or “bad” royals are endlessly discussed; those who disdain the whole thing often make a point of that position too. At the centre of Britain’s relationship with royalty is not mystery but storytelling: identification with one of various narratives that unite the personal and political, reflecting our values and our relationship with the state. Philip did not discourage his cult in Vanuatu. He wrote letters to the members. When they sent him a ceremonial club, he posed for a photograph holding it. When some visited London in 2007, he invited them to Windsor Castle. He did his duty. He understood that what they wanted was for him to play his part in their story, not disrupt it. This is also what he came to understand about royalty in Britain. Royalty may come wrapped in fantasy and magic, but what keeps people watching in the information age is the power of its story. Alex von Tunzelmann is a historian and author. Her next book is Fallen Idols: Twelve Statues That Made History