It didn’t always work as well as that. Not when Matthew Hopkins was in town.

“Behold, good people! She hath the Devil’s Mark upon her!” The villagers booed and hissed. On cue, as usual. None bothered to challenge Hopkins, to ask for proof that the Devil had, indeed, suckled blood from the frightened old woman bound before them.

Hopkins blustered on, lapping up the attention. He had them now, he could control them perfectly. “Gwyneth Mortlock, as Witchfinder General, with the authority of Parliament I find you guilty of witchcraft. There is but one penalty for this…”

He leaned in close, his face a manic rictus. The villagers waited breathlessly. They knew what was coming, but still had to strain to hear Hopkins’s dramatic whisper.

“You shall be hanged by the neck…until dead.”

As though a valve had been released, the villagers burst into wild jeering. I took the opportunity to edge closer to the sobbing woman and whisper to her.

“I can get you out of this. Stay close and do precisely what I say.”