*
With Madonna and Guy back in London — the press heated up its scrutiny of their wedding plans although Madonna’s press representative, Liz Rosenberg dutifully denied that any wedding was even being planned. However, once the banns had been officially posted at the register’s office in Dornoch on December 6, the news was out: the couple would definitely marry in the Dornoch area of Sutherland. It could no longer be denied. However, the location of the event would remain a mystery to all but those within Madonna and Guy’s inner circle.
On December 18, the couple again arrived in Scotland by private jet. Though a hundred journalists gathered to document their arrival, Madonna and Guy made no statement. Madonna smiled at the crowd, though her glow seemed to dim somewhat when she heard the sounds of a bagpipe artiste known as Spud the Piper (Calum Fraser) serenading her with his odd rendition of “Like a Virgin.” Apparently bemused by the whole scene, Guy’s eyebrows lifted quizzically when he finally recognized the melody. “I guess it proves that you can play anything on a bagpipe,” he said.
The guests arrived shortly after Madonna and Guy. The Skibo Castle experience would, apparently, be a difficult five days for some of the invitees, a few of whom later complained of having felt trapped on the estate’s grounds. Truth be told, though, how bad could it have been? Everyone present would spend the time in the relaxing Edwardian splendor of the castle’s grounds, with free access to all the resort’s amenities and activities such as fishing for salmon and trout, clay-pigeon shooting, archery, croquet, mountain biking, hiking, bird watching, falconry and pheasant shooting. There were also tennis courts and snooker and table tennis, as well as an indoor swimming pool, gymnasium, sauna and steam rooms. For the most part, Madonna found herself sequestered with the women, Guy with the men. Occasionally, the couple would rendezvous to sneak off for long, romantic walks, their arms around each other. During the evenings, the entire party indulged in elaborate dinners — haggis, (“I’m sorry, but I simply can’t eat that,” Gwyneth Paltrow was overheard saying to one guest. “Why, I don’t even know what it is!”), lamb, oatmeal and spices.
On December 21, baby Rocco was christened in Dornoch Cathedral. A crowd of about a thousand spectators, which had gathered in front of the cathedral hours earlier, were kept back from the premises by a police cordon. “Rocco is our Ray of Light to Dornoch,” read a placard proudly carried by one local resident, alluding to Madonna’s Grammy-winning CD.
For his christening, little Rocco was dressed in a white, gold-embroidered $45,000 “romper” designed by Donatella Versace. During the private proceedings, the baby’s godmother, Trudie Styler, read the lengthy “Lorica” hymn while her husband, Sting, sang “Ave Maria.” (The child’s godfather is Guy Oseary, Madonna’s partner in Maverick Records.) Some of Madonna’s family, in town for the wedding, also attended the thirty-minute christening, including her father, Tony, and his wife, Joan, Madonna’s sister Melanie Henry and her husband, Joe. Guy’s mother, Lady (Amber) Leighton, and his father, John — along with Guy’s stepmother, Shireen Ritchie and her twenty-one-year-old son, Oliver (from a previous marriage), were all in attendance. As well as a Catholic priest, also present were about forty total strangers to the couple, the church’s elders, described as parishoners with perfect attendance records. Without them, according to strict church rules, no ceremony is permitted to take place in the cathedral. “Well, who’s to keep them from selling us out to the press?” Madonna wanted to know. “I don’t trust a single one of them.”
“The way I look at it, if you can’t trust people who go to church every Sunday,” Guy said, according to what he later recalled to this writer, “then who can you trust?”
So moved was Madonna by the baptism (performed not by the Catholic priest but by the Rev. Susan Brown, a minister), she is said to have three times burst into tears during the ceremony. Afterward, Madonna and Guy posed outside the cathedral with their baby for just a few moments. Guy delighted the crowd by holding Rocco aloft while Madonna — her hair swept under a veiled cap and wearing a long, double-breasted and fitted Chlóe coat — stood at his side, looking stunning, demure and . . . royal. Smiling broadly, she waved grandly to the score of cheering, teary-eyed fans. Meanwhile, photographers memorialized the moment on film . . . no doubt, never dreaming that this would be the only shot they’d get of anything that was to take place in the next twenty-four hours.
Later, Guy learned that authorities had arrested two men — James and Robert Jones, both former soldiers from South London — for sneaking into the church and attempting to videotape the christening. Robert, fifty-one, had actually hidden in the cathedral’s organ for sixty hours — with two plastic garbage bags for body waste. He and James were discovered in the cathedral about an hour after the ceremony. “That’s one for the other side,” Guy said, gamely. “Almost.”
“I was actually rather amused by it,” Guy told me a few months later. “I mean, you have to have a sense of humor about it, now don’t you?” he added. “Good show for them that they got that far, that’s what I thought.”
*
Finally, the Big Moment had arrived. The “main event,” the wedding, on December 22, 2000, at 6:30 P.M.
As the plaintive sound of a lone bagpipe player filled the great hall of Skibo Castle, Madonna’s four-year-old daughter, Lourdes, barefoot and in an ivory gown with short sleeves and a high neck, led the wedding procession. As flower girl, she delicately tossed red rose petals from a basket while descending fourteen red-carpeted stairs. Immediately, many of the women began to weep. Among the fifty-five guests seated at the foot of the stairs were Gwyneth Paltrow (who arrived alone); Donatella Versace (escorted by Rupert Everett); Sting and his wife, Trudie Styler; filmmaker, Alex Keshishian; designer Jean Paul Gaultier; and Madonna’s good friends Debi Mazar and Ingrid Casares. As well as members of Guy’s family, many of his buddies and some of the casts and crews of his films — including Jason Statham and Jason Flemyng of Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels — were in attendance.
After Lourdes’s moment, music of French pianist Katia Labeque served as the background score to Guy Ritchie’s entrance as he walked down a middle aisle, past the guests, and up the stairs now strewn with rose petals. Though born and raised in England, Guy had been determined to marry in full Highland dress. The romantic notion of his family’s Scottish lineage has always filled him with immense contentment and pride. He has come to believe the heritage of his ancestors is integral to who he is as a man, that their ancient blood flows through his veins, informs his identity. For his wedding — his first — he wore a Hunting Mackintosh plaid kilt of navy and green, custom-made by Britain’s Scotch House and boasting his ancestral Mackintosh clan tartan. Underneath the kilt, Guy wore nothing, as is the custom. (“I’m not a wuss,” he jokingly explained to a friend.) His teal blazer was tailor-made by London’s Alfred Dunhill. He also boasted green and antique diamond cuff links, a wedding gift from his bride. (Four-month-old Rocco Ritchie, wearing a matching outfit — but with a diaper on underneath — sat in his nanny’s lap in the first row of the congregation.) Guy mounted the stairs and stood at the top, handsome and proud in the warm glow of hundreds of candles.
Ritchie was trailed by his two best men: Matthew Vaughn (producer of Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels, and Snatch) and London nightclub owner Piers Adam who, like Guy, suffers from dyslexia (the two still attend classes together to overcome the disability). They were followed to the top of the stairs by Stella McCartney, Madonna’s maid of honor.
It had been expected by many of Madonna’s friends — as well as the press — that Gwyneth Paltrow would be maid of honor. However, according to one intimate, Gwyneth said that she couldn’t “bear the pressure of such a performance” and begged Madonna to “let me off the hook, please.” So, the honor was extended to Miss McCartney, designer daughter of Sir Paul McCartney. She wore a self-designed, understated, grey-and-beige silk pants outfit.
Then, at last, the bride . . .
She had come so far that, most certainly, her middle-class youth in Bay City, Michigan, must have seemed light years in the past as forty-two-year-old Madonna Louise Ciccone gazed down at her guests, her manner composed, her demeanor regal. As she stood at the top of a majestic staircase, its balustrade laced with ivy and white orchids, she was resplendent in the supernatural light of the great old castle. She appeared as would a queen to her subjects . . . or maybe even as Eva Perón would have to her constituents, for this was a production that, at least to some observers, seemed on the same grand scale as her star turn in Evita.
Madonna’s ensemble was the result of just weeks of planning: the gown was designed (free of charge) by Stella McCartney; the tiara — 767 diamonds, 80 carats — loaned to her by Asprey & Garrard of London; bracelets courtesy of Adler of London; the diamond cross designed for her by Harry Winston in New York. It all had been coordinated as quickly as possible so as to get it out of the way. Madonna, her inimitable brand of efficiency well-known to those who have worked for her, has never been one for dawdling. If she has agreed to give a show, she’ll give one — and a good one! — but it needs to be done quickly and efficiently. No fuss. Or, as she would put it, “Just do it!”
This isn’t to say that Madonna hadn’t been excited about planning her wedding. The invitations, guest lists, menus, travel plans, florists, musicians . . . she ploughed ahead with all of it, with the assistance of her capable staff. Once she became involved in the formal wedding attire, her designer’s imagination and sense of style ran wild. She was soon in the swing of things, viewing the selection of each fabric with Stella McCartney and other close friends as one of her life’s biggest adventures. “How often do you choose something, the memory of which you’ll have all of your life?” she decided in conversation with a friend while reviewing sketches of gowns. “I don’t want to look back on my wedding pictures in ten years and say, ‘What was I thinking?’ Plus, really, look how much fun all of this is. What girl wouldn’t love this!” She wanted perfection, no matter the cost of time, money, or energy. Those who attended the wedding would say that, as usual, she got what she wanted.
When she reached the top of the stairs, Madonna kissed her father on the cheek and then left his side to stand by Guy’s. From a distance, she seemed to be crying. Touched, Guy reached for her hand, regarding his bride with obvious warmth and affection.
The Ritchies’ wedding ceremony — in front of Skibo’s bay window of century-old stained glass — was just twenty-minutes long (as conducted by the Reverend Susan Brown, the first female minister ever to be in charge of a cathedral and, also, the minister who had earlier baptized Rocco.) In muted voices, the couple exchanged vows which they had written, sealing their promises to one another. They then exchanged wedding bands — Madonna’s a simple platinum-and-diamond ring, Guy’s a gold one. Even from a distance, Madonna’s face seemed flushed the moment she and Guy were pronounced husband and wife. One spectator in the third row later recalled, “You could see, with sudden clarity, the intense love in her eyes for this man. Guy touched her cheek gently, maybe wiping away a tear, I’m not sure. It was a moment, though, like no other. There was a true bonding, on every level.”
After the obligatory wedding kiss, the newlyweds finally descended the stairs as husband and wife, their guests cheering in appreciation. Flashing a beguiling smile, Madonna seemed to glow as she and Guy stood at the bottom of the staircase and accepted the good wishes of friends and family. Those who know her well say that she had never appeared happier than she did at that moment. She seemed filled with a contentment that she, perhaps, had never before known.
After the ceremony, everyone gathered in Skibo’s drawing room for champagne toasts. Dinner was then served in the castle’s oakpaneled dining room. As a traditional four-piece Scottish band played, guests drank champagne and red wine and ate lobster, salmon, mussels, Aberdeen Angus beef, roast potatoes and red cabbage. For dessert, a caramelized profiterole cake was served. At 11 P.M., the party moved on to a disco that had been set up in the basement of the castle. By this time, Madonna had changed into an ivory-white pantsuit. The new bride was also adorned by millions of dollars worth of jewels: diamonds that were on loan from Harry Winston. Guests then danced into the early morning hours to recorded music by Madonna and Sting, as well as artists who had contributed to the soundtrack of Guy’s movie, Snatch.
Thanks to such careful planning by Guy Ritchie and certain members of Madonna’s experienced staff, the event had been successfully shrouded in unprecedented secrecy, and had been a total media blackout. In sub-freezing temperatures, hundreds of journalists camped outside the locked gates of the castle, awaiting some word that the couple had married. It never came. Dozens of paparazzi, blacked up and dressed in camouflage gear, then crawled through the undergrowth of the castle grounds to get a closer look. They were hotly pursued by Guy’s security officers who were armed with sophisticated, heat-seeking equipment, infrared cameras and other thermal-imaging devices. The photographers were picked off, one by one, like hunted deer. “If anyone manages to get past my guys, they deserve to get in,” Guy had said, laughing.
“At the end of the day,” as Guy Ritchie put it, he had certainly, “won the game.” Not one salable photograph of the couple was taken by any paparazzi, though one photographer did somehow manage to shoot a blurry, long-distance shot of “the missus” standing in front of a window. Also, no firsthand observations were given to reporters. There was never even an official announcement that the wedding had taken place, only a statement from the minister who had officiated: “It did happen.”
Slowly, over the course of three days after the ceremony, sketchy — and often contradictory — details of what had occurred behind the castle’s gates began to emerge. Surprisingly, no wedding picture of the couple was issued to the press, though noted photographer Jean Baptiste Mondino had documented the entire experience. “If we’re playing the game, we go all the way with it,” Guy told one of Madonna’s press representatives. “So, no photos.”
Madonna could not have been more delighted by the notion of not releasing photographs to the media, perhaps never considering that the fans whose financial support had made such opulence affordable for her may have treasured at least one picture of the occasion. However, in her view, there was something appropriate, and even novel, about this turn of events. As she would later privately explain, it was often dismaying to her when she realized that the public was so fully aware of how she acted and appeared during practically every key moment of her entire life. It gave her a sense of satisfaction knowing that her second wedding remained a mystery. “I think it’s fabulous,” she told one friend. “I didn’t get married for anyone’s entertainment, anyway. Fuck ’em, all,” she said, doubtless in reference to the media, not her fans. “I think I’ve given enough, don’t you?”
In the end, the only real breach came from Guy’s father, John, who had told a reporter — prior to his arrival at the castle — that Guy would be wearing a kilt of the family’s Hunting Mackintosh tartan. Once he arrived in Scotland, the elder Ritchie was given a severe dressing down from one of Madonna’s representatives. When he later heard about the rebuke, Gu
y became incensed — perhaps the only time he was angry during the five days at Skibo. “He’s my father,” Guy hissed at Madonna’s handler upon confronting her. “How dare you speak to him in that way!” An argument ensued, a blowup that quickly ended when Guy walked away with a fierce expression, muttering something about “the fucking assholes that work for the missus.” Though instantly forgiven by his son and his fiancée for the innocent transgression, the senior Ritchie was still shaken by the internal fracas. At the cathedral just prior to the baptism, a reporter from the Associated Press asked him what was going to transpire at the ceremony; John Ritchie responded, “I wouldn’t dare ask.”
After the wedding, Madonna’s father, Tony, and his wife, Joan, left Scotland for the United States. Everyone who knew Madonna felt that her father’s presence in Scotland had been a strong indicator that his relationship with Madonna — “Nonnie,” as he sometimes still calls her — was now on firm ground. Whatever unpleasantness had occurred between them had been assigned to the past where, hopefully, it would remain.
One close friend reports overhearing a conversation between father and daughter on the grounds of Skibo Castle. Tony, awed by his surroundings, spent much of the time with Guy’s father, John, soaking up the environment, feasting his eyes on the scenery. On the morning of the wedding, he and Madonna enjoyed one of many heartwarming moments on the grounds. Wearing what appeared to be a cashmere, pale pink turtleneck sweater with straight-leg jeans, Madonna sat under a sycamore tree, holding baby Rocco in her arms, close to her bosom. A cheerful nanny played tag with Lourdes, three feet or so away. Friends milled about, watching Madonna with the new baby and gazing out at the spectacular vista spread before them. This peaceful scene played out gently in the early morning hour’s sunlight, abundant with beauty, harmony and a sense of timelessness that made it all seem so far removed from the outside world.
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