Arthur had lost track of time. He couldn’t remember how long he’d been held captive in the castle’s dungeon. It could have been months, it could have been years. He was thin and weak, but he was determined, somehow, to escape from his confinement. Or to die trying. He planned and schemed and had finally devised an approach that might actually enable him to break out.
He knew he didn’t have the strength to directly challenge the single guard who delivered the one meal he was served each day. But Arthur had managed to painstakingly remove one of the thick, wooden slats from his bed frame beneath the thin mattress. He figured that when the guard came into his cell and set down the tray of food, he would summon up all the strength his frail body could muster and would hit the guard in the head with the heavy wooden slat.
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