Holywell was the favourite residence of John Churchill, Duke of Marlborough. Situated near St Albans in Hertfordshire, it was a place of refuge from the rigours of waging a war, a country home where he and his wife, Sarah, could enjoy the domestic life that his military duties so frequently interrupted. When they first took full possession of the estate, they had rebuilt the house and laid out the gardens and walks, planting fruit trees in abundance and creating floral colour everywhere. While he was abroad, Holywell was rarely far from of his mind and Marlborough was always sending gifts back to the house. As he and his guest dined that day, they had eaten off china shipped home by him years earlier from The Hague. They were now sharing a post-prandial drink.

'I begin to think they do not want us to win this confounded war,' complained Marlborough, toying with a glass of brandy. 'Every time I am in a position to deliver a telling blow, I am held back by the Dutch. I vow, Sidney, there have been many occasions when I've been sorely tempted to resign my command and be done with it all.'

'Far too much is at stake for you to do that,' said his companion seriously. 'The only way we will ever defeat King Louis is by having you to lead the armies of the Grand Alliance. With English, Dutch and Austrian troops at your disposal — not to mention practical support from elsewhere in Europe — you could conceivably mount a decisive assault on the enemy.'

'I could — but only if I am given a free hand.'

'I do my best to keep Parliament off your back, John.'

'They still hamper me dreadfully.'

'That's the penalty you pay for having a Tory government,' said the other with a shrug. 'The awful truth is that my fellow Tories do not believe in armed intervention on the Continent. Oh, they are happy enough to commit our naval resources to the war but they baulk at the notion of sending more troops and equipment to the Netherlands. They constantly bicker about cost.'