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"Goodness," said the Doctor to nobody in particular, "this is a long one!" Though, come to think of it, every Big Evil Plan speech she'd heard from the Master was a long one. It was one of his features, even more so than the shape of his nose, or the flop of his hair, or the way he huffed his impatience, looking twitchier than before.
As they were both standing in a fourteenth-century stable, and a strong smell of manure permeated the air, it was hard to fully get into his speech—or maybe that was just the sound of the grain mill in the background undercutting the Master's delivery. Nonetheless, the Doctor was feeling generous, so she gestured at him to go on. Let him have his fun, for the moment. And, to give him credit, his plan really needed a good twenty minutes to be properly explained. There were some fun touches here and there with new technology he had picked up (or more likely stolen) from the Manussans, and then a very convoluted but ultimately understandable side-plot that involved a nuclear reactor. You had to give it to the Master: when he went megalomaniacal, he did it thoroughly.
When the Master finally stopped talking, the Doctor gave him a little round of applause. "Do you see what I mean?" she said. And then, "Ooh. Nearly forgot." Quick as a darting fish, she plucked the Doctor's laser screwdriver out from his pocket. "I'll take that, thank you very much."
In the door marched a couple of stern-looking men, farm sturdy and looking rather fed up, followed by a thin-faced, very tall man, whose face was exactly that of a schoolteacher finding a problem student playing a prank on him, the classic "disappointed but not surprised." He was the town sheriff, and he had not gotten enough sleep the night before.
"I think I understand, yes," he said, as his two local helpers each seized one of the Master's arms. The Master struggled—of course he did—but to no avail.
"And he says I'm too reliant on my gadgets," the Doctor sniffed.
"Well?" demanded the Master. "What's it going to be? Hanging? Burning?"
"Hanging?" said the Doctor, perplexed. "For what?"
"Heresy! Treason!" Unexpectedly, the Doctor's lips parted in a snarl of a smile. "Witchcraft."
"Oh, goodness, no," said the Doctor, sauntering alongside as the three men marched the Master down the street. "That's rather too much glamor for you, I think. And at this point, I believe these gentlemen view you more as a lunatic than a threat." (The Master did not enjoy that. Not one bit.) "However," the Doctor went on, ignoring the increased wattage of his glare, "you have demonstrably broken a law. Petty thievery." She gestured at his clothes, which he had indeed stole.
"What about you?" he spluttered.
She smiled serenely. "Bought and paid for." They both knew that she did often purloin something here and there—an apple, a knife, a priceless scroll she simply couldn't bear to part with—but that just made his growl all the sweeter.
At last, their odd little group of five reached their final destination. A small, curious crowd had already gathered, and as the sheriff's men fastened the heavy wooden frame around the Master's wrists, more people came to see what was going on.
"Is this a joke?" the Master shouted.
"Rather," said the Doctor. "Can you guess the punch line?"
It was at that point that the first piece of garbage hit. While the Master was not well-known to the town, nor petty thievery a particularly loathed crime, there was something about his scowl, the way he shouted, and, most of all, how very boring the town was of a Tuesday afternoon, that made the local children particularly enthusiastic in slinging anything they could find straight at his face. This being far before tomatoes, unfortunately there were none of those, but in place of rotten produce, one bright boy had the idea to make a mud-ball and let fly with it, and soon the rest followed.
There really could not have been a more perfect punishment for the Master. Pain was not really the thing, was it. He'd had so much of that before. Pain and loss. But people jeering at him, and worse, refusing to take him seriously—now that was a fresh hell he had not experienced before ever quite so thoroughly.
Whistling merrily, the Doctor ignored his howled promises of revenge, turned on her heel. As she headed back, she tried to think of how she could explain her newest mission to Margery Kempe, and by the time she had reached the grain mill, she'd forgotten all about the Master.