Again, we have the issue of vocabulary. This is clearly no cot but instead a medieval torture rack. Tearing my gaze gratefully away, I’m further dismayed to see that the cell’s other furnishings are equally medieval. Another crank and chain leads up to a pulley on the ceiling, from which hangs a five-foot bar with more manacles at either end, obviously designed for suspending some woeful sufferer (“Me, me!” my terrified mind cries in disbelief) for endless hours of torture. Next, bolted to the wall opposite the bedack is a large X-shaped wooden cross, also equipped with manacles for suspending and securing some unfortunate soul for torture, this time spread-eagled to allow access to all the most vulnerable areas of the body. Yet worst of all – or so I momentarily think – sits right in the
