Death At the School of Translators, A Rebecca DeToledo Medieval Mystery
Ivanhoe meets Phryne Fisher in this medieval adventure of a woman sleuth.
Toledo, 1193: A city of scholars, secrets, and simmering tensions. When Queen Eleanor of Aquitaine’s Jewish spy is found dead, whispers of treachery reach all the way to England.
Rebecca DeToledo, a gifted healer and wealthy Jewish heiress, arrives under royal orders to investigate at the School of Translators. Her mission quickly turns perilous as she faces threats to her life and a sudden battle over her inheritance.
Assigned to guard her is Sir John of Hampstead, a disillusioned crusader burdened with knowledge that could threaten King Richard’s release from captivity. Forced into this partnership, he must protect Rebecca while grappling with his own orejudices.
As they navigate Toledo’s complex alliances, where Christians, Jews, and Muslims coexist in fragile peace, they uncover a web of secrets reaching deep into the cathedral. Can Rebecca and John unearth the truth before they become the next targets?
For fans of historical sleuths, slow-burn tension, and secret missions cloaked in royal intrigue.
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EXCERPT
In Death at the School of Translators, loyalties are tested constantly. John of Hampstead, a disgraced knight, has tried to keep his past buried—until the queen herself summons him into her carriage.
In this scene, John discovers that nothing escapes Eleanor of Aquitaine’s notice. Cornered, he must answer for his past in the Crusades and prove his worth—or risk losing more than just his place in her guard.
John of Hampstead rides with Eleanor of Aquitaine
“Your Majesty!” Joana, Eleanor’s chief lady-in-waiting rushed to the queen’s side, her eyes lighting in genuine joy.
“Joana, arrange for my travel back to the residence. John of Hampstead…” He jumped, completely unprepared for the direct address. “As my personal guard, you are to accompany me inside my carriage.”
“Inside, my queen?” On the way to the tourney grounds, he had walked as a rear guard to the royal procession. The queen rode with two of her ladies.
“Please don’t make me repeat myself, as I am in pain and tired.”
The queen, nonetheless, had steel in her voice, and her back was straight as Joana helped her to stand. John bowed and jogged out of the tent to inform Philip, one of the four guards assigned with him to the queen’s tent that day, that he would be riding inside the queen’s carriage. The queen walked slowly out, leaning on Joana’s arm. John followed in a daze, a condemned man walking to the gallows. The rest of her ladies-in-waiting fanned around them, while the other three guards formed the perimeter of the group.
“Drive slowly, please, Matthew,” she told the royal carriage’s coachman, who bowed deeply. She turned to John, and he had enough sense left to offer her his arm as she climbed laboriously into the carriage.
“No,” she told Joana who tried to join them, “I need to be alone, and he has to accompany me as my guard.”
The whispers of the entourage stirred around him. Guillaume had returned and shot him a worried glance. Taking the position as guard had been a risk, but in a starving England, it was too good to pass up. The London residence was notoriously empty of royal occupants. Until now. He climbed into the carriage, bracing for the queen’s interrogation, his mind grappling for a path forward. He took his seat, and they rode a while in silence. The queen’s gaze fixed on his right knee, which bounced up and down. He willed it to still.
“The healer lady, Rebecca, what did you think of her?”
The question caught him off guard. He blinked several times and found his tongue. “That she is competent. And I believe Guillaume thinks the same.”
He’d never heard of a woman healer before, outside of convents, but Rebecca was no nun. She was very rich. Her clothes denoted her as such. And brazen, unusually sure of herself. He pegged her as foreign nobility come from the courts of Castile or Leon.
“Look at this beautiful bandaging,” the queen raised her neatly banded arm. “It was fortunate that she was in the crowd. She is Jewish and lives with the Jews in London.”
“Jewish?” The healer had spoken to him, a knight in the queen’s guard, in dismissive tones. How dare she! If Jews happened to pass through Hampstead High Street, his French grandfather, a great war hero of the Second Crusades, would drive them out with sticks.
The queen watched him with knowing eyes. He had a feeling she knew exactly what he thought.
“I know your story,” Eleanor’s tone shifted from conversational to icy. “My son Richard was very lenient with you.”
So, she knew. His mind went blank.
“You were assigned to my residence at William Marshall’s recommendation.” She paused. Her eyes nailed him to his seat. “But he, of course, had let you go years ago. My master of spies made enquiries about you, as he does of all who are close to my person. You joined the English army, led by my son Richard the Lionheart, to fight in the Holy Land in the Third Crusade. While there, still serving under Richard’s command, you refused a direct order, but my son pardoned you. Is that correct?”
He had faced battle countless times, but he’d never felt so close to death. Queen Eleanor could retract Richard’s judgement, have him court martialed and hung. As soon as tomorrow. He licked dry lips.
“Yes, Your Majesty,” he croaked, proud he could still speak at all.
“Tell me all,” she commanded. “And since this is a short ride, please don’t do it in more than three or four sentences.”
Author Bio – Esther Knight writes historical mysteries featuring a bold heroine who challenges the norms of her time.
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Giveaway to Win a $15 Amazon Gift Card (Open INT) In Death at the School of Translators, loyalties are tested constantly. John of Hampstead, a disgraced knight, has tried to keep his past buried—until the queen herself summons him into her carriage.
In this scene, John discovers that nothing escapes Eleanor of Aquitaine’s notice. Cornered, he must answer for his past in the Crusades and prove his worth—or risk losing more than just his place in her guard.
John of Hampstead rides with Eleanor of Aquitaine
“Your Majesty!” Joana, Eleanor’s chief lady-in-waiting rushed to the queen’s side, her eyes lighting in genuine joy.
“Joana, arrange for my travel back to the residence. John of Hampstead…” He jumped, completely unprepared for the direct address. “As my personal guard, you are to accompany me inside my carriage.”
“Inside, my queen?” On the way to the tourney grounds, he had walked as a rear guard to the royal procession. The queen rode with two of her ladies.
“Please don’t make me repeat myself, as I am in pain and tired.”
The queen, nonetheless, had steel in her voice, and her back was straight as Joana helped her to stand. John bowed and jogged out of the tent to inform Philip, one of the four guards assigned with him to the queen’s tent that day, that he would be riding inside the queen’s carriage. The queen walked slowly out, leaning on Joana’s arm. John followed in a daze, a condemned man walking to the gallows. The rest of her ladies-in-waiting fanned around them, while the other three guards formed the perimeter of the group.
“Drive slowly, please, Matthew,” she told the royal carriage’s coachman, who bowed deeply. She turned to John, and he had enough sense left to offer her his arm as she climbed laboriously into the carriage.
“No,” she told Joana who tried to join them, “I need to be alone, and he has to accompany me as my guard.”
The whispers of the entourage stirred around him. Guillaume had returned and shot him a worried glance. Taking the position as guard had been a risk, but in a starving England, it was too good to pass up. The London residence was notoriously empty of royal occupants. Until now. He climbed into the carriage, bracing for the queen’s interrogation, his mind grappling for a path forward. He took his seat, and they rode a while in silence. The queen’s gaze fixed on his right knee, which bounced up and down. He willed it to still.
“The healer lady, Rebecca, what did you think of her?”
The question caught him off guard. He blinked several times and found his tongue. “That she is competent. And I believe Guillaume thinks the same.”
He’d never heard of a woman healer before, outside of convents, but Rebecca was no nun. She was very rich. Her clothes denoted her as such. And brazen, unusually sure of herself. He pegged her as foreign nobility come from the courts of Castile or Leon.
“Look at this beautiful bandaging,” the queen raised her neatly banded arm. “It was fortunate that she was in the crowd. She is Jewish and lives with the Jews in London.”
“Jewish?” The healer had spoken to him, a knight in the queen’s guard, in dismissive tones. How dare she! If Jews happened to pass through Hampstead High Street, his French grandfather, a great war hero of the Second Crusades, would drive them out with sticks.
The queen watched him with knowing eyes. He had a feeling she knew exactly what he thought.
“I know your story,” Eleanor’s tone shifted from conversational to icy. “My son Richard was very lenient with you.”
So, she knew. His mind went blank.
“You were assigned to my residence at William Marshall’s recommendation.” She paused. Her eyes nailed him to his seat. “But he, of course, had let you go years ago. My master of spies made enquiries about you, as he does of all who are close to my person. You joined the English army, led by my son Richard the Lionheart, to fight in the Holy Land in the Third Crusade. While there, still serving under Richard’s command, you refused a direct order, but my son pardoned you. Is that correct?”
He had faced battle countless times, but he’d never felt so close to death. Queen Eleanor could retract Richard’s judgement, have him court martialed and hung. As soon as tomorrow. He licked dry lips.
“Yes, Your Majesty,” he croaked, proud he could still speak at all.
“Tell me all,” she commanded. “And since this is a short ride, please don’t do it in more than three or four sentences.”
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