The Crippled Angel
The third book of The Crucible, the exciting historical fantasy series from the author of the popular Axis Trilogy.The crises enveloping Europe begin to alter the mentality of the world. People are no longer content with their lot in life; they have grown ambitious and disruptive. The Church is losing its grip, not only are the heresies raging out of control, but more and more priests are speaking out against the Roman Church… the order of the world is dissolving into chaos.Neville faces his own crisis as he begins to question his faith. Inflitrating many social circles, gathering information for the Church, he meets the heretic priest John Wycliffe and the peasant rebel Wat Tyler. He suspects strongly that they are shapeshifting demons… yet he cannot help but agree with their criticisms of the traditional structures of society and of the Church itself.Neville does not know it, but his soul has become the ultimate battleground. The choices he makes will dictate the final outcome of the battle between the forces of good, and those of evil.
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The Crippled Angel
Book Three of the Crucible Trilogy
Sara Douglass
The Crippled Angel is dedicated, fittingly, to the bestest bunch of Apostolic Wreakers of Havoc ever: Alana, Corey, Craig, Elizabeth, Justin, Karmela, Mark C, Matt, Matthew, Michelle J, Michelle L, Patrick, Tanya and particularly to Tracey who has so obligingly taken over the reins of Tyranny whenever I felt a tad fragile. Thank you all so much for your help.
With thanks to Rachel Smallman for her vision of heaven, and to Stephanie Smith and all the team at HarperCollinsPublishers Australia for seeing me through to the end of another trilogy.
He married his wife on Sunday
Beat her well on Monday,
Bad was she on Tuesday,
Middling was she on Wednesday,
Worse was she on Thursday,
Dead was she on Friday;
Glad was he on Saturday night,
To bury his wife on Sunday,
And take a new wife on Monday,
To beat her on the Tuesday.
Version one of a traditional English
nursery rhyme
Table of Contents
Prologue Friday 1st March 1381
III Saturday 4th May 1381âiâ
IV Saturday 4th May 1381âiiâ
V Saturday 4th May 1381âiiiâ
VI Saturday 4th May 1381âivâ
PART TWO The Dog of Pestilence
I Tuesday 21st May 1381âiâ
II Tuesday 21st May 1381âiiâ
III Tuesday 21st May 1381âiiiâ
VI Friday 24th May 1381âiiâ
VII Friday 24th May 1381âiiiâ
VIII Sunday 26th May 1381âiâ
IX Sunday 26th May 1381âiiâ
X Sunday 26th May 1381âiiiâ
XI Monday 27th May 1381âiâ
XII Monday 27th May 1381âiiâ
XIII Monday 27th May 1381âiiiâ
XIV Monday 27th May 1381âivâ
IV Wednesday 5th June 1381âiâ
V Wednesday 5th June 1381âiiâ
XI Thursday 27th June 1381âiâ
XII Thursday 27th June 1381âiiâ
VII Monday 12th August 1381âiâ
VIII Monday 12th August 1381âiiâ
IX Thursday 15th August 1381âiâ
X Thursday 15th August 1381âiiâ
XI Thursday 15th August 1381âiiiâ
I Friday 16th August 1381âiâ
II Friday 16th August 1381âiiâ
III Monday 19th August 1381 (Night)
IV Tuesday 20th August 1381âiâ
V Tuesday 20th August 1381âiiâ
VI Tuesday 20th August 1381âiiiâ
VII Tuesday 20th August 1381âivâ
VIII Tuesday 20th August 1381âvâ
IX Tuesday 20th August 1381âviâ
X Wednesday 21st August 1381 (Night)
XII Thursday 22nd August 1381 (Evening)
XIII Saturday 31st August 1381 (Night)
III Tuesday 10th September 1381
I Tuesday 10th September 1381 continuedâ¦
III Thursday 17th October 1381
The chamber was close and warm, its windows closed, its air thick with the scent of herbs.
There was silence, save for the moans of the woman squatting between two midwives before the roaring fire in the hearth.
The woman giving birth was naked; her skin gleamed with sweat, while her unbound hair had soaked into glistening strings clinging to her shoulders and back. The midwives bent over her, holding bunches of soothing herbs close to her nostrils and open mouth, rubbing the small of her back encouragingly.
They did not murmur instructions to her, for Marie was of their own and knew what was happening both to her own body and to the baby it was trying to expel.
Two other women stood half shadowed on each side of the shuttered windows. To one side stood Catherine of France, daughter of the insane Louis and the adventurous Isabeau de Bavière, her attention as much on her silent companion as on the labouring Marie.
Slightly distanced from her stood Joan of Arc, Maid of France, staring intently at the woman struggling to give birth. Her face, if possible, was even more tortured than that of Marie.
She was terrified of what Marie was about to birth.
Joan had spent these past seven months since Charlesâ crowning at Rheims cathedral in a fugue of despair. This despair was not caused by Charlesâ stubborn refusal to move from Rheims, or to do anything which might be construed even vaguely warlike, but by the swelling of Marieâs body. Indeed, Joanâs despair had increased in direct proportion to the escalating distention of Marieâs belly. Marie might not know how her child had been conceived, or who had put it in her, but Joan had a very good idea, and she knew that if the child confirmed her suspicions then she would have no choice but to abandon her crusade for the Archangel Michael.
