Taking it in her hands, the fingers brutally twisted and torn, with Sorcha’s help, Janet swallowed some. A great deal dribbled down her grazed chin. Sorcha blotted it away, trying not to let Janet see how deeply her injuries affected her. Rancour and nausea bubbled inside her.

Sensing how she was feeling, Nettie rested a hand briefly upon her. Sorcha drew succour from her touch.

Outside, the sound of people assembling grew. Angry people. Sergeant Thatcher went to the window and pulled back the curtain. ‘The councillors’ men have arrived.’ He grunted. ‘There’s fewer than I’d hoped.’

Sorcha looked out. Why, half the Weem were milling about the street, unafraid of the soldiers, their guns or the men the council had sent, men who only hours before had been throwing missiles at Janet. Sorcha’s stomach began doing somersaults.

‘What do we do?’

Sergeant Thatcher gazed at her. His eyes were a brilliant hazel in the firelight, but even she could see the uncertainty in them. ‘Wait. Hopefully, they’ll grow weary of this and leave.’

An argument rose above the general din, muffled but fierce.

‘What are they saying?’ croaked Janet. Nettie tried, unsuccessfully, to divert her.

Sorcha couldn’t make the words out, but whatever was being said was fraught. There were shouts, then a screech followed by a long, low roar. Steel clashed and clattered, there was a grunt followed by a loud groan. Something slammed against a wall. The women jumped; the windows shook.

The door was flung open and in burst a group of men. Behind them were the guards, subdued now their firearms and daggers had been forcibly taken. Armed with what they’d snatched from the soldiers and a range of makeshift weapons, the intruders took one look at Janet and, pushing first Nettie then Sorcha to one side, fell upon her.

‘She’s here! The witch is here!’

‘Nae!’ screamed Sorcha. ‘Leave her alone. Haven’t you done enough?’ Someone kicked out, but she managed to dodge the boot, wrapping her arms around Janet who clung to her, trembling. Nettie landed a blow upon a soldier, earning a fist to the cheek for her efforts. It didn’t stop her crawling back towards Janet and shielding her.

‘I’ll not let them take you,’ whispered Sorcha.

‘Me neither,’ said Nettie.

‘I won’t let them hurt either of you,’ said Janet and tried to stand.

Slapping aside those who tried to grasp a hold of Janet, Sorcha and Nettie used nails, teeth, feet, whatever they could. Shirts were torn, skirts became caught in someone’s pike, pinned by a knife, ripped.