CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
A.D. 45–A.D. 50
F
ive
years in a life can be eternity; can be the length of a summer’s afternoon. In Madoc’s tree-hung Hall i’ the Forest, time flowed away almost before Gwyndoc had noticed it, for there was so much to do, and, at times, it seemed, so little time to do it in. Once Madoc’s fury against Rome had died down—which it did within a few weeks, when he realised fully the practical implications of declaring a war on such a powerful neighbour—and once Gwyndoc had inured himself to waiting for Caradoc to make a move, the problem was fairly simple. It was now only a matter of accepting life as it came, of putting oneself in the hands of the gods and waiting. Gwyndoc had his new friend’s assurance that when the time came his Ordovices would march with him or with
