Matthew treated me to dinner at the famous Belle Savage Inn just outside the Blackfriars on Ludgate Hill. More than a simple eatery, the Belle Savage was an entertainment complex where customers could see plays and fencing matches—not to mention Marocco, the famous horse who could pick virgins out of the crowd. It wasn’t rollerskating in Dorchester, but it was close.
The city’s teenagers were out in force, shouting insults and innuendos at one another as they went from one watering hole to another. During the day most were hard at work as servants or apprentices. Even in the evenings their time was not their own, since their masters expected them to watch over the shops and houses, tend children, fetch food and water, and do the hundred other small chores that were required to keep an early-modern household going. Tonight London belonged to them, and they were making the most of it.
We passed back through Ludgate and approached the entrance to the Blackfriars as the bells tolled nine o’clock. It was the time the members of the Watch started to make their rounds, and people were expected to head for home, but no one seemed to be enforcing the rules tonight. Though the sun had set an hour earlier, the moon was only one day away from full, and the city streets were still bright with moonlight.
“Can we keep walking?” I asked. We were always going somewhere specific—to Baynard’s Castle to see Mary, to St. James Garlickhythe to visit with the gathering, to St. Paul’s Churchyard for books. Matthew and I had never taken a walk through the city without a destination in mind.
“I don’t see why not, since we were ordered to stay out and have fun,” Matthew said. He dipped his head and stole a kiss.
We walked around the western door of St. Paul’s, which was bustling in spite of the hour, and out of the churchyard to the north. This put us on Cheapside, London’s most spacious and prosperous street, where the goldsmiths plied their trade. We rounded the Cheapside Cross, which was being used as a paddling pool by a group of roaring boys, and headed east. Matthew traced the route of Anne Boleyn’s coronation procession for me and pointed out the house where Geoffrey Chaucer had lived as a child. Some merchants invited Matthew to join them in a game of bowls. They booed him out of the competition after his third strike in a row, however.
“Happy now that you’ve proven you’re top dog?” I teased as he put his arm around me and pulled me close.
“Very,” he said. He pointed to a fork in the road. “Look.”
“The Royal Exchange.” I turned to him in excitement. “At night! You remembered.”
“A gentleman never forgets,” he murmured with a low bow. “I’m not sure if any shops are still open, but the lamps will be lit. Will you join me in a promenade across the courtyard?”
We entered through the wide arches next to the bell tower topped with a golden grasshopper. Inside, I turned around slowly to get the full experience of the four-storied building with its hundred shops selling everything from suits of armor to shoehorns. Statues of English monarchs looked down on the customers and merchants, and a further plague of grasshoppers ornamented the peak of each dormer window.
“The grasshopper was Gresham’s emblem, and he wasn’t shy about selfpromotion,” Matthew said with a laugh, following my eyes.
Some shops were indeed open, the lamps in the arcades around the central courtyard were lit, and we were not the only ones enjoying the evening.
“Where is the music coming from?” I asked, looking around for the minstrels.
“The tower,” Matthew said, pointing in the direction we had entered. “The merchants chip in and sponsor concerts in the warm weather. It’s good for business.”
Matthew was good for business, too, based on the number of shopkeepers who greeted him by name. He joked with them and asked after their wives and children.
“I’ll be right back,” he said, darting into a nearby store. Mystified, I stood listening to the music and watching an authoritative young woman organize an impromptu ball. People formed circles, holding hands and jumping up and down like popcorn in a hot skillet.
When he came back, Matthew presented to me—with all due ceremony—
“A mousetrap,” I said, giggling at the little wooden box with its sliding door.
“That is a proper mousetrap,” he said, taking my hand. He started walking backward, pulling me into the center of the merriment. “Dance with me.”
“I definitely don’t know that dance.” It was nothing like the sedate dances at Sept-Tours or at Rudolf’s court.