Thanks to Sonya for the photograph.
The prisoner shudders. It’s been twenty years now, give or take, that he’s been held at this castle in the Welsh Marches, and his bones shriek as he strains against the manacle. He can endure the conditions in the summer, but, come winter, the cold is unbearable. The truculent guards can’t understand how he’s managed to survive so long. It can’t be hope that sustains him. There is no hope. It would be impossible to escape. The walls are as impenetrable as the King’s will is intransigent.
The prisoner should know; he designed it that way, back before his thwarted rebellion. The funny thing is, even now, he feels a sense of accomplishment.