Now in his late fifties, he had always defied the passage of time and retained his boundless energy and resilience. Years of campaigning, when he sometimes spent twelve hours a day in the saddle, had not weakened him to any degree. His zest for battle remained intact. Now, however, it was different. Looking at Marlborough as he sat hunched over his desk, Adam Cardonnel was worried about him. Their commander was clearly unwell. He’d been afflicted by a series of pounding headaches that were difficult to shake off. He had a fever of some sort and was unable to sleep. Fatigue had painted deep lines on his face. What disturbed his secretary even more was the fact that Marlborough had become so uncharacteristically downhearted. It was almost as if desolation had eaten into his soul. They were alone in the tent. While Cardonnel had been writing some letters, Marlborough was poring over a map of Flanders. He was so motionless that his secretary began to wonder if he’d dozed off from exhaustion.
