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 prejudices.
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.
Esther Knight writes historical mysteries featuring a bold heroine who challenges the norms of her time.
In Death at the School of Translators, Rebecca DeToledo’s compassion often pulls her into danger. A gifted healer and reluctant spy, she cannot ignore those in need, even when it puts her own safety at risk.
In this scene, a desperate boy begs Rebecca to save his baby brother. What begins as a simple act of healing soon spirals into suspicion, threats, and peril…until a knight in shining armor arrives.
The Sick Child
“How much farther?” Josse asked.
“Not far, señor, I swear!” Alfonso called. His desperation sounded real. And then—on a breeze—they heard it. A baby’s harsh, barking cough. The river curved to reveal a small cottage at the edge of the woods.
“Mama, I brought a healer!” Alfonso yelled. “To cure Tomas!”
Three barefoot girls rushed out, followed by a haggard woman clutching a baby.
“Hello. I’m Rebecca,” she said gently. “How old is he?”
“Twelve months. I’m Therese.” The mother’s voice quavered. “Alfonso, you were to fetch the village healer!”
“He wanted money. She came for nothing, she’s better,” Alfonso said, and Rebecca suddenly felt very foolish.
“He has the croup,” she told the mother, extending her arms. Therese didn’t hesitate. She passed over the squalling child.
“Will he live?” Therese asked. A burly man emerged from the trees, an axe strapped to his back, logs in his arms. Another man followed. He was sleek and well-dressed, completely out of place, a hawk amongst hens.
“I think he followed us,” Josse murmured in her ear. Rebecca’s arms instinctively tightened around the sick child, as if to shield them both. From the father and from the stranger.
“Juan, a lady healer is helping Tomas,” Therese called. Then, uncertainly: “Señor?” She asked the stranger.
“He was lost in the woods,” Juan grunted. “And why not the village healer? Does she know what she’s doing?”
“Most babies recover if it’s caught early,” Rebecca answered Therese’s question. Tomas let out a deep, body-wracking cough, harsh and barking, the unmistakable sound of croup. Rebecca shifted him to her shoulder, positioning his chest against her collarbone. She gave a firm push. He gagged, then coughed up a wad of phlegm.
“She’s killing him!” Juan shouted, hand going to his axe.
Josse and the stranger stepped forward, placing themselves between her and Juan. Despite his slim build, the stranger radiated menace.
Rebecca had a sick child in her arms. That was the thought that steadied her. The baby needed her, nothing else mattered. With her free hand she reached into her satchel and pulled out a mustard and camphor rub. Crouching and laying Tomas on her knees, she opened the lid and gently lifted the infant’s shift, massaging the balm into his ribs, chest, and stomach. His wheezing deepened and gave way to a sudden sneeze. The child giggled.
Juan snatched the balm jar and eyed the Hebrew script with suspicion.
“What’s this writing say?” he asked. The stranger’s extended his hand with such authority that Juan handed the jar to him without question.
“Vous êtes Juieu?” the stranger asked in French. Juan’s eyes narrowed.
“Juieu?” he repeated. “Judio?”
Rebecca shifted her pouch of Baruch’s letters out of view. Coming here was a greater risk than she’d reckoned. She’d been reckless. She’d stepped away from her guards, from safety, because a child asked, telling herself it was her duty.
“The mixture eases breathing. I’ll leave some for you,” she said, voice trembling.
“Are you a Jewish witch?” Juan growled.
“No, sir,” she said, forcing her voice to stay level, fighting to quell her fear. “Therese, get lemon and honey. Chop and add this.” She handed over a precious root of ginger, her hands shaking badly. “Give it to him twice daily before meals. Now, we really must go.”
She had done all she could. Juan’s stare and the stranger’s close scrutiny set her every nerve on edge.
“You stay,” Juan said. “Or I’ll tell the town you’re a Jewish witch come to kill my Tomas. You’ll burn.”
“She is not a witch,” said the loyal Josse. “She is Rebecca DeToledo, and she is a great healer.”
Brave Josse drew his sword. But he was skinny and visibly afraid of the burly farmer and his ax. She sank onto a log, heart hammering. Tomas had fallen asleep in her arms. Therese took her son silently, shame flickering in her eyes. The stranger stepped back a pace, eyes alert. He had intervened before in her defense. Now he knew she was Jewish, he’d leave her to her fate.
“She’s not staying,” a voice rang out.
John of Hampstead stood on the path, sword drawn, sunlight flashing off the blade. For one breathless moment, she couldn’t move. Relief surged so fast it made her dizzy. He’d come for her. Of course he did. Charging in like some storybook knight to clean up her messy recklessness.
“Rebecca. Behind me. Now.”
She scrambled to her feet, clutching her satchel as if it could shield her from her own stupidity.
