Major Gotthard Vilhelm Marcks von Würtemberg arrived at a prosperous farm named Marivold, in the fringe of the port town called Værdalsøren. The general had made his headquarters there. It was mid-afternoon on a slate-colored October 18, with sporadic rain and occasional confused snowflakes. Marcks was wet, numb with cold, and bone-tired. Had ridden 550 miles in 10 days, much of it in bad weather, snatching sleep when accommodations presented themselves. And changed horses at every infrequent opportunity, for decent horses — or any horses — were hard to find.

On the road, he'd met two of the king's aides, Didron and Zander, riding south to report to His Majesty. They'd paused, and told Marcks what to expect — a ragged, demoralized army, half starved and riddled with sickness. The general himself had had a severe fever, but refused to be bled. He'd survived without it.

"Too sick to die," Didron had said.

Dismounting, Marcks handed his reins to an orderly, then clumped up the sturdy wooden steps onto the stoop. "I have come from the king," he told the guard, and the man let him in. Inside, another soldier ushered him down a short hall, and opened a door. Marcks stepped inside and heard it close behind him.

Armfelt had looked up. "Major," he said, and unfolding his frame from his chair, stepped around the desk to greet his one-time aide, the king's messenger. Armfelt himself had come in just minutes earlier, from inspecting the Hälsingland regiment; had removed his boots for his orderly to clean, dry, and oil, and changed his wet breeches. Now, in his stocking feet, he greeted the king's courier. He knew the king's message would be critical. At best.

Marcks, though bone tired, was observant. He noted the general's haggard face, marked as much by worry as by illness. And the slight, uncharacteristic slump of his shoulders. He looked to have lost 20 pounds or more.

"Sit if you'd like," Armfelt said gesturing. From the the gray-tinged face and mud-splashed boots, breeches, and cape, he knew the grueling ride the major had had.

"Thank you, Herr general." Marcks remained standing however. "I bear a message to you from His Majesty."

Armfelt nodded gravely, and extended a hand to receive it. Marcks glanced at a clerk, at a table across the room. "Eirik," Armfelt said, "leave us for now. I'll call you."

The clerk scuttled out. (It is possible to scuttle with the back straight.) When the man had closed the door behind himself, Marcks met the general's eyes; diffidence was not appropriate, even before a general, when delivering a message from His Majesty. "Herr general, His Majesty did not write it down. He had me memorize it."

"Ah," the general said, and straightened his shoulders, bracing himself.

Major Gotthard Vilhelm Marcks von Würtemberg cleared his throat, preparing. "The ongoing withdrawal of the army toward Sweden is unacceptable! There must be no further delay! You will return southward to Trondheim at once, and capture the city, including Christensten, and Munksholm, and the entire diocese! No one must even consider returning to Sweden until that is accomplished, and even then not until I order it."

Marcks stopped then, indicating that was all of it. Armfelt nodded gravely. "Thank you, major. Now, stay a moment" Then he walked to the door and opened it. "Eirik! I have something for you to do!"

Armfelt called a meeting of his staff and regimental commanders, then summarized the king's orders, softening the tone slightly, but not the substance. Then he ordered intensified harvesting, threshing and baking. And foraging. Marcks attended, of course. He wondered what the king would say about those orders — they did not include marching orders — but having delivered the king's message, he'd reverted to the general's staff again. And thanks to Didron and Zander, he knew the half-starved state of the army, and the state of its health. So he would hold his tongue. The general faced very real problems here, and his plan, if not bold, was decisive and explicit, with targets. Clearly the king's message had re-energized him — though he still aimed at minimizing risk to his army. And while the actions he assigned, most of them, were things they'd already been doing, that energy, that new and forceful sense of intention, it seemed to Marcks, would spread and grow.

And if some of the feuds within the general's staff had become as bad as Didron and Zander had described, they were stifled in the general's presence. Though what the feudists might say outside the general's presence...

He'd keep his ears open, as well as his eyes.

Captain Heiki Wapenkunnig sat his gelding beside a four-horse freight wagon half loaded with barrels, baskets, and sacks. Its tailgate was down, ready for more. One platoon stood guard, facing watchfully outward. His other three platoons had dispersed to the three farmsteads, set more or less back from the road, to search for provisions. And fodder, which under the circumstances meant hay. Any grain they might find would feed men, not horses.

The sky had been clear, the past two days, and the nights had frozen hard. Today, though — today was cloudy, with a nasty wind and a threat of snow.

Heiki, a Finn, was functional in Swedish but uncertain with Norwegian. Most of Heiki's platoon, largely Savoläinit — men from Savo — spoke little but Finnish, but each squad had at least one man assigned who spoke tolerable Swedish, and could make himself understood, more or less, to Norwegians. Men from the Jämtland regiment, used to Norwegian, were sometimes detailed to Finnish regiments as interpreters, one for each company on foraging duty.

Thus Corporal Lars Olofsson Skoogh stood beside the captain, both men scanning the small cluster of farms and the forest edges behind them. Their eyes were open for skulkers — Norwegian militia or scouts. Foraging was hazardous duty: Norwegian militias had attacked foraging parties. In upper Trondheim fjord, an entire short battalion of Savoläinit had been foraging on the island of Ytterøy, when a flotilla of armed Norwegian coastal vessels had appeared offshore. The battalion had dispersed. Some tried to escape on the boat they'd come on, rowing for Skaanes Skans, and being caught up with, surrendered. More than 50 Savoläinit had been taken prisoner.

And a more serious result was the damage to the Finnish reputation in the minds of Norwegians who heard of it.

Wapenkunnig disliked foraging duty. He'd been a sergeant in Lithuania, during the draconian foraging there to gather supplies for the Swedish-Finnish army in the Ukraine, and had despised the job. That had been 10 years previous, 10 years of a war that had made a cynic of him.

During the defense of Finland, he'd been commissioned an officer, and after the battle of Pälkäne, and again after Isokyrjö, he'd been promoted. He knew well the military necessity of foraging, but still didn't like it; Russians, Cossacks and Kalmucks were foraging in Finland today. Foraging and worse.

And to his mind, the king was Finland's only hope for freedom. There was no other.

There'd been intervals of sunshine the past two days, and the nights had frozen hard. But today, tattered dark clouds scudded across a leaden overcast, driven by a cutting wind, and threatening snow. One by one, the foraging platoons returned from their assigned farms. The last arrived a man short, with a sergeant bringing up the rear.

"Sergeant," the Captain called, "where is Private Skarpskytt?""

"He stopped to take a shit, sir. He'll be right along."

"Where was that? He was in a scouting squad."

"At the farm house. Said he was going to use the privy there, sir, out of the wind. Said he'd catch up with us."

Wapenkunnig grunted, and turned to the platoon leader. "Ensign, what did you find over there?"

"Three or four old turnips in a bag, sir. Some sour buttermilk in a crock. Sour but not rotten; they've had a cow there recently. And a bag with about a hatful of rye flour. And an old woman who walks with a cane. Nothing worthwhile. No livestock. There was shit in the sheep pen and the cow shed, and the stable had a manure pile out back, none of it fresh — two or three days at least — but it's not old, either. The scout squad followed a trail back through the forest to a bigger trail. Looks like it goes to a summer dairy up on the fjeld. There were no tracks since the last hard rain, but it should be worth following up on."

Wapenkunnig nodded. All three farms had probably moved their livestock up on the mountain for safe keeping. The old woman had been left behind so they could claim the sale money in case the livestock was found.

"Here comes Skarpskytt now," someone said.

Wapenkunnig's gaze shifted. The man was hurrying down the lane from the farmstead. When he arrived, the captain looked him over. "You took a shit before we left camp. You got diarrhea?"

"Not me, sir. It just wasn't ready yet."

"Take off your pack."

"Sir?"

"Take off your pack! I want to see what's in it."

Skarpskytt stood irresolute. Wapenkunnig drew his long pistol from its saddle holster and pointed it casually toward the man, gesturing. "Take it off! Now!"

The other men stood silent, watching while Skarpskytt reluctantly removed his pack. The pistol gestured again. "Sergeant, empty it onto the tailgate. A piece at a time."

He watched — so did Skarpskytt — as the platoon sergeant lined up items on the tailgate. Along with assorted military gear was a silver candlestick. "Turn out your pockets. Now!"

Skarpskytt paled but obeyed. He added a silver brooch and some coins.

"How did you get those?"

"I…found them."

"At the farmhouse?"

"They're hiding food from us back there. Serves them right sir!"

With his free hand, Captain Heiki Wapenkunnig reached in a saddlebag, took out a pair of wrist irons, and tossed them to the platoon sergeant. "Shackle him."

For a moment it seemed Skarpskytt might resist, then he held out his rugged, scarred and callused peasant hands, and the sergeant shackled them.

The captain turned to his 1st sergeant, who was also mounted, and gestured toward the farmhouse. "Sergeant Krigsfalk, ride over there and see what you find."

The sergeant cantered his horse to the log farmhouse. They watched him dismount and go inside. Hardly a minute later he emerged, mounted, and cantered back.

"What did you find, sergeant?"

"The old woman, sir," the sergeant said. "Dead. Eyes bulged, tongue out. Choked to death."

The captain nodded and turned to the platoon leader. "Ensign, chain Skarpskytt behind a wagon and detail a man to watch him. Constantly. Skarpskytt, Provost Poponen will know what to do with you." He struck the edge of his hard right hand sharply onto the palm of his left. Skarpskytt flinched.

Wapenkunnig's forecast was mistaken. Their general would have a better, more just and satisfying idea. One that would be remembered for generations.

Captain Jakob Johan Rickman, commander of Jämtland's cavalry company, led his men down a rough forest trail toward the settlement of Hegra. He was glad to be away from Værdal, with it's miserable and unending gleaning, sickness, and suffering. And foraging, a hateful task. So far as practical, crossing the fjeld, they'd skirted within or along the edge of forest, where they were less likely to be spotted. But the terrain was less rugged on the open fjeld, much better traveling, and in places he'd taken advantage of it. It hadn't rained — was too cold to rain — and given the wind, the transient snow showers had failed to blanket the ground and mark their passing. God be praised.

Now if the Stjørdal River is frozen… It was, almost certainly, at least in places. The real question was, how thick was the ice. That's what privates are for, he told himself. To test the ice.

Shortly they came to a förhuggning, recent felled but unmanned, smelling of spruce pitch. Its tangle of felled trees required leaving the trail, bypassing through trackless forest, where the horses had to pick their way around blowdowns and steep declines.

He wondered if the general's planted rumors had anything to do with the absence of Norwegian militia. And whether the förhuggningar on Givings Ridge were also unmanned. Hard to be sure.

At any rate, his orders took him only to the river. If Givings Ridge is manned, Rickman told himself, the army can bypass it via Hommel Creek. Then the Dane may pull all his people back into Trondheim. There's where we'll find out how good we really are. And how good they are.

It was October 31, and the army was on the move again with rations for 14 days. This time, crossing a plateau was very different from before. Its bogs and pools were frozen thickly enough to bear the weight of horses and men. The loaded wagons (some of them liberated from the Norwegians), and the few field pieces, were lashed onto newly made sledges so as not to break through. So the soldiers and civilian laborers weren't struggling to get horses and wagons out of mud holes; they simply marched. No blackflies, no sweat, no mud, no cutting and carrying of corduroys and fascines. The first days of winter cold had banished all that. And there was only a skiff of snow on the ground.

And the sun, always low in this season, brightened spirits, even when it failed to warm, and Rickman had reported stretches of weight-bearing ice on the Stjørdal River. Which meant other rivers would be crossable too, though the Dane no doubt had ships at work, clearing the ice from the Nidelva [river] at Trondheim. De la Barre, with his two regiments of Finnish cavalry, might already know. There could be a courier on his way right now, to report what they'd learned. Meanwhile they'd give the Dane something to think about, keep him guessing.

My luck has turned good again, Armfelt told himself.

His morale hadn't been that good since he'd been with Longström on the mountain above Langstein. It was partly the sound of drums; he loved it. It cheered him as much as the sunshine. The army and each of its regiments had a kettle drummer riding in the lead, a great drum at each shoulder of his horse. Rolling thunder on horseback! And after the lead drummers, an undulant serpent of infantry and cavalry — a blue and yellow, four-mile-long serpent — studded with lesser drummers and lesser drums, their staccatos crisp in the cold high air. Combined, the sound was like nothing else.

Karl Gustaf felt expanded.

He turned his mount off the trail, to watch his headquarters unit pass: soldiers, pack horses and wagons. And in their wake, a cluster of soldiers under arrest, slogging dully or sullenly behind the provost marshal, their hands shackled in front of them. He recognized Private Skarpskytt, who'd robbed and murdered an old woman. The man would do useful service yet.

General Budde had succeeded in spreading confidence in Trondheim and was getting his defenses in order. Thirteen merchant ships arrived carrying grain, and reinforcements had arrived from the south. The city now had a defense force of about 8,000. Also, a Danish man-of-war and two frigates lay in Trondheim harbor, prepared to shell Swedish forces within reach. On the other hand, by October 16, in Armfelt's army, 171 had died since leaving Sweden, about 1,200 seriously ill had been sent to the forts, and of course he'd had to garrison Forts Steine and Skaanes. More had died since. Thus the army Armfelt had left numbered fewer than 5,000 effectives.

Budde didn't realize how few men he faced.

The army crossed the Stjørdal River; Trondheim was only a few days march farther on.

Local tradition tells of an older woman who showed the army the way from the hamlet of Frigård to the hamlet of Høyby. When the general paid her, he advised her to put the money in her shoes. He then detailed two men to guard her till the army had passed. It also tells of a soldier who had robbed and murdered an old woman. Armfelt had the man escorted to Trondheim and turned over to the authorities there for trial and punishment. [This must have made a strong impression on the people of Trøndelag, certainly by hindsight.]

The weather warmed sharply, and there were more rains, melting the ice and regenerating mud. But there were no more boggy fjelds to cross; they were done with that.

As the army neared Trondheim, it found itself running low on food again, and paused awhile, more than once, to thresh grain and bake more bread, which largely it subsisted on. Then it moved on. Norwegian patrols skirmished with Swedish patrols, with modest casualties on both sides.

Reaching the vicinity of Trondheim, they were shelled by the Norwegian forts, the cannon fire cheering Trondheim's people, whose morale was not high. Thousands of reinforcements from the south [plus refugees from the countryside] had more than doubled the number of people crowded inside; sickness was rampant.

The artillery fire was not returned. Armfelt lacked artillery heavier than 3-pounders. This lack also made a siege impractical. So Armfelt decided to storm the narrow neck of the peninsula on which Trondheim was situated, and had storming ladders built. Meanwhile the army changed locations several times. Rains had raised the river level, so from a captured sawmill, a quantity of lumber was taken, and pontoons built for a bridge to move the troops into position to storm the wall that blocked the neck. [ see note]

The time was evening, the place Armfelt's headquarters in a large farmhouse, a herregård, near Nypan. With Armfelt were Colonel von Gertte, and Ensign Iggström taking notes. Also General Horn, Major Cronstedt, Major Hård, Captain Longström, and Sgt Major Wallmo. (General de la Barre was away, giving Budde another factor to account for, and seriously intimidating his reconnaissance efforts.) They discussed what was known about Trondheim's defenses.]

"And what do we not know?" Armfelt asked.

It was Cronstedt, an engineer and expert on fortifications, who replied. "I have two answers. The first is, what was known has probably been changed. And the second is, even as we speak, Budde is working as hard as he can to strengthen them further."

"Let me add a known," said Hård. "The Dane's warships will provide him with serious artillery support." He paused, still holding their attention. "It may be self-evident, but it bears repeating."

Heads nodded. "I've been thinking about that," Armfelt said. "If we were blessed with sufficient hard freezes, siege guns could be brought from Duved, but the king would not agree to the delay, so we must storm the town. And I would like more information on its defenses, its strengths and weaknesses.

"So who can we send as a spy? Someone knowledgable about fortifications, who knows what to look for." He scanned the room. "Someone who speaks the language well enough to pass as Norwegian. Or Danish."

Again it was Cronstedt who replied. "Lieutenant Rosenqvist might serve."

"Rosenqvist? The only Rosenqvist I know of is with the Hälsinglanders." Armfelt grimaced when he said it; the regiment had become anathema.

"That's him, General; Rosenqvist was assigned to the regiment after Tönningen. But he is personally from Bohuslän, and until the time of Karl X, Bohuslän was part of Norway. Even now the language there has a Norwegian sound. Also, Rosenqvist's mother was Norwegian, born and raised. From Østmark, which is in the south. Rosenqvist would have learned the language at her knee, or across it."

Hård spoke again. "Østmark is just south of Christiania, where I'm told Norwegian is spoken much differently than in the north."

"Your lordship..." This was in a voice unfamiliar to most. In surprise, even annoyance, all eyes turned to the speaker, Sergeant Major Wallmo, who'd gone virtually unnoticed, part of the furniture. General Horn, with Armfelt's acquiescence, had brought him for his knowledge of Trøndelag and its people. "I lived and worked in Norway for a time, in the mine at Røros," Wallmo said. "Long enough to know that a Trønder will recognize a southerner's speech as Norwegian."

Armfelt's eyebrows rose. "Then we need to question Rosenqvist. Find out whether he can succesfully pass as one of them; a countryman." The general turned to Marcks von Würtemberg. "Gotthard," he said, "bring Rosenqvist here at once."

"Ja, Herr General." The adjutant got quickly to his feet and hurried out.

Armfelt turned the meeting to other matters then: troop morale; provisions; and information obtained from Norwegians. A few of whom were cooperative; agreeable at least. Their Danish overlords were tolerated but not loved. He suspected that among many, the anti-Swedish attitude rested on the behavior of past Swedish commanders, and the consideration that better the king we're accustomed to than the king we scarcely know. We Finns, Armfelt told himself, have experienced both Russians and Swedes. Our choice is simple.

Lieutenant Rosenqvist arrived. He seemed to be in his early 30s, slim and blond. And worried looking: his regiment had been in serious trouble, and its command structure culled and reassembled. As for himself -- he'd escaped the culling as much because of his junior rank as from any particular virtue he'd displayed. That and serving under a strong battery commander with a strong 1st sergeant. He'd even been promoted, posted as his company XO.

"Yes, General," he said, "in the north I could easily pass as a Norwegian from the south. But if I run into someone from Østmark, say, or Christiania -- they might wonder. And more dangerous, Swedish usages are natural to me. As a spy, I would do well to speak no more than I must."

It was Longström who spoke next. "How often do you shave, lieutenant?"

Annoyance flashed in the blue eyes. "As often as need be."

"Ah. Your beard seems very pale and fine, what there is of it. Clean shaven and dressed in woman's clothes, you might pass for a farm wife, might you not? Your voice is even rather high."

The lieutenant flushed now. As an adolescent he'd gotten in fights over his voice. And done well in them; a free-holder's son, he'd worked in the fields and forest from childhood, and his slender body was supple, agile as well as strong.

Armfelt frowned. "What are you telling us, Captain?"

"The lieutenant, sir, might be better able to observe, be more ignored -- as a sour-faced farm wife. And be required to speak less. It would be her husband people would pay attention to, and question. Or answer his questions."

Armfelt's expression and voice turned thoughtful. "And who would be her husband?"

"I was thinking of Corporal Lars Olofsson Skoogh, of Jämtland's Regiment, General. He has served me boldly and well in the role of a Trønder. He fooled the Norwegians as our spy at Holtålen and Steine, and had to think on his feet. He even fooled Budde himself in conversation."

Marcks von Würtemberg spoke now, his expression interested, alert. It was he who'd arranged Skoogh's assignment, and received the report. "So. A Trønder and his wife. If they were questioned, what might he say, this Corporal Skoogh?"

"Give him a fat swine," Longström said. "He could take it to town, to sell. He sold a reindeer to Budde."

"And how to explain bringing his wife?"

"She was afraid to be left on the farm," Longström replied. "Afraid the Finns might get her."

Heads began to nod.

"So she left the children behind?"

"They have only one child. Hers. They brought him with them. He is...not bright."

"Why the child? Why so complicated a scenario?" Hård asked, more curious than challenging. Longström's mind and reputation had long intrigued the king himself.

"Skoogh has a mind suited to spying. As I've said before, if he spoke Finnish, I'd have asked Herr General to transfer him to me. Also, complexity provides opportunities.

"Skoogh is younger than his wife," he went on. "But she is strong, and has this child who is a problem to her, a child from her years as a bond girl, with a master who took advantage of his house girls. And Skoogh, who was visiting in Christiana, was in the market for a strong wife who would be beholden to him. And this one came with a bonus, a son to help on the farm. A dull-witted son, but well able to work and do as instructed. This is the sort of impression they need to give. To deflect attention."

"How do you propose to find a suitable child?"

"God has already provided him; I know the boy well." He turned to the sergeant major. "He is the messenger you sent me, and in truth is quite bright, as I'm sure you know." Then, turning back to Armfelt, he added: "You've seen him: the lad who dealt so well with your pistol bearer, by the stoop at Skalstugan. He is also a friend of Skoogh, who has been teaching him Norwegian. He has even learned a few words of Finnish! He has a good ear and good tongue for languages, though as a spy he must pretend to be dull-witted and sullen, so the Trønder will not expect him to talk.

"His mother must appear sullen, too. That sullenness will protect them all from the hazards of idle conversation."

Armfelt nodded thoughtfully. "Which brings us to the matter of what questions they must be able to answer when they return."

They sorted that over till near midnight, with Armfelt, von Gertte and Cronstedt central to the discussion.

Four men and a boy lugged the clinker-built boat through the darkness, down to the riverbank. A well-grown barrow — a castrated pig — followed them on quick small hooves, led on a tether by a tall lank woman. A pig on a tether was not common, but neither was it so uncommon that it would draw particular attention.

Overnight the mud had frozen. None of the men wanted to get their boots wet needlessly, so they used the boat's prow to break the rim of new ice along the riverbank. Then, with the bow afloat, the woman and the boy clambered in, she moving to the bow. One of the men, thick-shouldered and wearing farmer garb, picked up the pig, which out-weighed him, and put it in the stern. Its jaws had been tied shut with rawhide, to immobilize its tusks. Briefly it squealed, but did not try to struggle free; it had been a household pig since weaning — was used to being manhandled — and this man had lifted and carried it earlier. The boy took the tether and led the animal forward, giving the tether to the farm wife. She then turned the animal on its side and began scratching its ears, crooning to it. The boy, in turn, slipped a loop of rawhide around a hind foot, threw a loop around the other and tied them together.

They'd drilled this on dry ground, coached by Captain Longström himself.

With an effort, the men lifted the stern, and with strong rushing steps, pushed the craft free of the shore, the farmer pouncing aboard at the last moment. In quiet Norwegian, brief words were exchanged between the couple, then the farm-wife, crouching, worked her way back to the stern, while the farmer and his stepson took the rowing seats. Meanwhile one of Longström's Finns hacked a blaze on the downstream side of a spruce on the riverbank. The man and boy seated the oars between the thole pins and began to row downstream, keeping to the middle, letting the current do most of the work. The farm wife might take a turn later, but for now she simply rode; she outranked the man and boy.

They had a very long day ahead of them.

Morning was thinning the darkness when the boat passed Trondheim's upriver fortifications, giving the farmwife a decent look at them. An officer with a spyglass eyed but did not challenge the little family. By the time Lars tied up at a downstream wharf for small boats, visibility had widened. There a guard corporal questioned him, wrote down the names of the farmer and his farm, and gave Lars a chit. Meanwhile the pig's feet were freed. Then the family walked off toward the market, Lars in the lead, feigning a limp, followed by Lieutenant Rosenqvist and trailed by Matts, who led the pig on a short leash.

To a boy from Solslätte, the street up which they walked was a marvel, paved with smooth river rocks. He could see the advantage; even if the ground weren't frozen, it wouldn't be muddy. And the buildings along the street! -- there was no space between them! And none were of logs. His curiosity almost compelled questions: Why? To what purpose? What are they called? Do such things exist elsewhere in Norway? But he'd been warned repeatedly, before they'd set out, not to ask qustions, or talk at all except when told to. No, not even if no one was near them. And there were lots of people on the street; there was always someone near enough to overhear, and realize he was a spy. So he stifled the impulses.

The market was remarkable for its size, and for the number of people there. Soldiers were there, too, Norwegian militia uniformed in red and white, carrying muskets with bayonets, and wearing sabers at their sides, making the danger real to Matts.

But Lieutenant Rosenqvist seemed unimpressed. The little "family" paused, and Matts took a shorter grip on the tether while the lieutenant scanned the crowd. The "farm wife" nudged "her husband," and when he looked at her, she gestured, barely, with her scarf-bound head. They changed direction then, picking their way through the market crowd, all three Swedes listening for whatever seemed useful.

Till they reached a guarded area with a trestle table and two wagons. A Norwegian army officer stood by the table, listening to a man with a wheelbarrow that held a large basket-like crate stuffed with miserable-looking live ducks. Lars turned to Matts and took the tether from him, then positioned himself behind the short wiry man with the ducks. At the table, the man offered the birds for sale, and removed one for examination. The officer examined it, prodding and squeezing, referred to a list, and named a price. The farmer with the ducks looked as if he'd been slapped.

"They are worth three times that!"

The officer shrugged. "You can hardly take them home. The Swedes will get them and pay next to nothing. If that."

"Next to nothing is what you just offered. I'll sell them to a fowler."

"You should have done that in the first place. The army can hardly trouble with a few scrawny ducks..."

"A few? There are ten of them, and as well fed as you'll find! A table of officers would feed happily on them for a week with no trouble at all, and their lackeys would take care of the plucking and drawing." He put the abused, apathetic duck back in with the others, as if to leave.

"Just a moment. I'll give you, um...two shillings, and not a penny more. Duck would make someone a welcome change from herring."

The seller stood reluctant for a moment, then nodded glumly. The officer wrote a bill of sale. The man hoisted the crate onto one of the wagons, received his shillings, and left trundling the now empty wheelbarrow.

The ensign turned to Lars. "And I suppose you want to sell me a pig."

Lars, large and powerful, met his gaze calmly. "A very good pig. Weaned on buttermilk."

The ensign peered disapprovingly at the pig, then at his list. "Half a riksdaler."

Lars scowled. On him a scowl meant something. "There are laws against theft," he said.

The ensign scowled back, then abruptly grinned. "Sell it to the Swedes then."

"Never!" Lars gestured. "There's a butcher over there who'll offer more."

The ensign cocked an eyebrow. He'd been a farmer's son, and enjoyed a little dickering. "No, he'll offer less, then sell it to me for the price I just offered you."

Lars never blinked. "Shall we put it to the test?"

The ensign looked him up and down. "Why weren't you mobilized with the militia?"

"Because I lack toes on one foot. I broke a ski on the fjeld, as a lad, and froze them badly enough to lose them. Now I can't keep up with others, especially on skis."

"Hmph." The ensign paused, pursing his lips, then looked around and spoke more softly. "I may get in trouble for this, but...I'll make that a riksdaler."

"A riksdaler." Lars's gaze dropped, and he gnawed a lip. "All right," he said, "a riksdaler.... With the Swedes in the country, I could be dead by Christmas. We all could."

As they left the market, Matts looked around, sizing up their distance from the nearest other ears. "

"Pappa," he murmured, remembering their roles, "this is not the way we came."

Lars scowled at him. "Idiot! Of course not. I want to see the town. Matts blushed and nodded, and said nothing more. He'd he forgotten the warning he'd been given, and determined to err no more. Walking, they soon approached a building he recognized as a church, though it was immensely larger than the church at Solslätte, and featured a massive, square stone tower. He wondered if that was where they were going.

It was. A heavy door opened into a lobby with a worn, much-swept carpet. There they paused briefly. Lars knew the local lore related to it, and spoke without muting. If anyone heard him through one of the inside doors, what he said would establish him as local, and his small family as from somewhere else -- the south, judging by his wife's speech. "This is where Saint Olaf lies in his tomb," Lars said, "the greatest king of all time. It was built by King Harald the Harsh, a very long time ago, and was the greatest church in Norway, until it burned in the great fire some forty, fifty years ago. But when it was rebuilt, they left off the spire."

"The greatest in Norway?" said his wife sniffily. "It is nowhere near as grand as the cathedral in Christiania."

Deacon Tryggve Haraldssøn had seen them from a window in the archbishopric, a man, woman, and gawky adolescent boy starting up the roadway from the street. But they were of no account, and he was putting on his coat, so his attention didn't follow them. A minute later he stepped out onto the stoop. It was cold but not freezing, or barely, and there was little breeze, so after he'd tasted the air, he went carefully down the several steps. (Though still quite active, he was elderly, and cautious going down stairs.) Ahead he saw the visitors he'd noticed out the window, a farm family from their clothing. Noticed now that although they walked briskly, the man limped.

As he trudged well behind them, they turned into the entranceway, climbed the steps and disappeared. Fritjhof had neglected to lock the door when he'd left; he'd have to speak to him about that. With all the strangers in town, there was a particular risk of theft.

From the lobby he entered a side aisle. The pews were almost empty. Only the farmer and his son were there, in a pew near the rear. The woman, he decided, must be in the public hemmelighus. Going to the vestry, he hung up his cap and coat, then briefly visited the staff privy. Entering the nave, he saw the man and boy still sitting near the back. The woman still was not. Where then? He was sure he'd locked the vestry, where there were valuables worth stealing, but returned anyway and checked the lock.

Dismissing his concern, he went to the alter to pray and meditate. Then, his contemplations completed, he peered down the nave. The woman had not rejoined the man and boy, who still sat where they'd been. Where might she be?

Lars had seen the churchman enter, and felt vaguely uncomfortable, though not alarmed. A grayhead like him would hardly climb the steep stairs into the tower. After a time, the churchman finished praying and left, and still they sat, he waiting, Matts dozing. Lars grew restless. What could be taking Rosenqvist so long? Still he held patient a while. Finally he got to his feet, and waking Matts, murmured for him to follow, then sidled from the pew and started back down the aisle. In the lobby, stairs climbed to an opening through the high ceiling, and soft-footedly they climbed them. The stairs opened onto a landing, from which two further flights rose to another opening high above. After pausing, they went on, as quietly as possible without removing their farmer boots. At the top, the stairs opened onto a final landing...where they found the deacon sprawled on the floor, seemingly dead, a puppet with the strings cut. Lieutenant Rosenqvist stood at a window, peering out. A small sketch pad and paper-wrapped graphite stick lay on the plank floor near his right foot..

"I heard you coming," he said, in Norwegian over his shoulder. Then paused, took a small spyglass from inside his blouse and looked briefly at something. "I've been sketching the new fortification work. I'll be done soon. Budde has his people busy."

"What happened with...this?" Lars asked, gesturing toward the body.

"The churchman is dead, God rest him. He started up the stairs a while ago. I could hear his feet, and his loud breathing. After a few rests, he got here, and asked me what I was doing. I told him I'd come up to see God's splendid view. For a few seconds he said nothing more, just stared at me, his faced screwed up as if puzzling. Then his eyes grew wide, and I knew...he'd decided I was not a woman...or perhaps not Norwegian. His mouth opened as if to shout, so I grabbed him and struck his head against the stone wall. He went limp, and I choked him to make sure he wouldn't wake up."

Rosenqvist shrugged, then gestured. "Don't show yourselves at the windows. I'll soon be done with my sketching; then we can leave. It's unlikely anyone will think to look for him up here for a day or two -- it's cold enough he shouldn't stink -- and by that time we'll be with the army again."

Matts was pale as wheat dough, and looked as if he might vomit. Lars, himself a little pale, clapped Matts' shoulder. "We are at war," he murmured in Norwegian, "and at war it is often necessary to kill." Matts nodded without speaking. Meanwhile Rosenqvist alternately sketched and peered through his pocket spyglass,

Lars did peer briefly through a window, but kept half an arm's length back from it. Matts was not tempted; the corpse on the floor had shown him all he cared to see.

The three Swedes left as quietly as they could, then in the guise of a farm family, rubber-necked slowly along Kjøpmans Gata -- Merchants Street -- that paralleled the river. It bustled with construction. The riverside itself was lined with warehouses and shipwrights, most of wood, and storage yards, where the activity was greatest. Some buildings had been pulled down, providing space and materials, and workmen bustled. Much of it Rosenqvist had sketched from the tower. Now he was getting a closer look.

From time to time the farm wife would mutter something to her husband. He might then question an onlooker or working man about the work, as if from out of town, perhaps considering employment. It went well enough. Rosenqvist, maintaining his sullen demeanor, listened, recording it all in his mind, filling in his earlier observations and impressions, piecing things together.

The November daylight was short, and it was past midday when Lars bought a limpa of rye bread, tearing it in three parts. While they ate, they sauntered west on Kings Street to the narrow, strongly fortified neck, the land approach of the tear-shaped peninsula on which Trondheim was built. This fortification was known from earlier descriptions, but the general wanted to know what new work might be underway.

They paused where the street emerged from among the buildings, about a furlong — some 200 yards — from the massive stone rampart, with its narrow gate. Uniformed men, muskets at order arms, stood atop the rampart, facing outward, away from town. Meanwhile, standing between the rampart and the town, was a mostly completed palisade about twelve feet tall, its upright logs set in the earth, and backed by a dirt mound to withstand cannon fire. There was a walkway on top, and firing notches, with armed soldiers looking outward. Rosenqvist hadn't seen it from the church tower. Buildings had interrupted the view.

"Will you draw it, sir?" Lars murmured.

"No. I have drawn it in my hind."

"What next then?"

"We are at risk as long as we stay here, but we will take a roundabout way to the boat. There'll be as much to learn by listening as by seeing. And you will talk to one and another of the locals, as a farmer from up the valley, curious about matters here in town."

"You listen too, Matts," Lars put in. "It's part of your duty here. Listen, but continue to act dull-witted. If they discover we are Swedes, we are dead men."

Rosenqvist didn't comment, but wondered why Lars had troubled to say it. Actually, since seeing the dead deacon, Matts had seemed in a state of shock, and Lars was trying to nudge him out of it.

They wandered east up Olav Tryggvasons Street to the north end of Kjøpmans Street -- here a chaos of muddy ruts. Outside a tavern, three men stood talking; they'd obviously been inside already. By their clothes, they were townsmen. Lars stepped over to them. "What do people think here?" he asked. "Will the Swedes attack the town?"

One of the men grunted. "Why else would they come all this way?" Another added, "If they do, they'll get a bloody nose. The third added: "They may not stay long. Three englishmen -- one of them three masted! -- dropped anchor in the fjord two weeks ago. They'd expected the Swedes to be here already. One of their skippers told the mayor they'd come to haul the Swedes across to Scotland. That's what's said, anyway. Crazy! Why would they do that? Why would the Swedes want to go to Scotland? And it would take a lot more than three ships to haul that army."

One of the others laughed. "Scotland! They must have gotten some bad whiskey!"

Where the Nidelva entered the fjord, the fortification work featured additions to pre-existing stone defense works at the end of the peninsula. A small gaggle of gaffers stood watching the work, exchanging comments, and Lars engaged them.

"Are most of these workers townsmen?" he asked. "Or are they farmers come to find paying work?"

The gaffers were not only hard of hearing, they'd been drinking, and the question loudened them. "Both," one said.

"Ja," said another, "and some are militia that got put to work..."

"That or conscripts. And if they want to eat, they need to work..."

"They came pouring in to town to defend it from the Swedes..."

"Or escape the Swedes..."

"So the army picked them up."

Not far off, a sergeant heard the exchanges -- the noise mostly, he didn't catch most of the words -- and spoke sharply to his men. The six landvern, militia lounging about in a semblance of order arms, came more or less to attention, their eyes on the gaffers and the man they were speaking with. The gaffers, who'd been aware of them before, saw the movement. Their attention shifted, drawing and directing Lars's. And Rosenqvist's. One of the gaffers noticed, and speaking less loudly, gestured with his head. "Farmer, I think you are about to join them."

"I want to go home," Rosenqvist said.

Lars faced his "wife." "Damn you, woman!" he bellowed. "I've had enough of your complaining! You and your damn kid! I can't even share a drink with these gubber without you whining! All right! We'll go home, but you will row, damn you, you and the boy! And when we get there..." He turned abruptly, stumbling, almost falling, caught himself and started off east, limping up Kjøpmans Street, his wife and stepson following. The bemused press squad watched them pass without accosting them, the farm family looking straight ahead.

Two furlongs farther on they reached the farmers' boat dock, where Lars showed his chit to the corporal of the guard. Then they clambered into the boat, the farmer giving orders, staying in the stern while his wife and stepson took the rowing seats. They shoved off with the oars, then seated them and rowed away, upstream into the current. Shortly they passed the end of the shore fortifications, from which a corporal called to them, more bantering than challenging. "Hey there, shit kicker, where are you going at this hour? Don't you know it's November! It'll be getting dark soon!"

Lars waved at them. "I left my money with the tavern keeper," he shouted back. "I have nothing left to hire a bed."

"You better be careful! The Swedes may catch you!"

"Ja, well maybe they'll steal my wife. Something good needs to happen to me!"

The soldiers laughed, and waved as "Anna" and Matts stroked past them upstream. Rosenqvist scowled at Lars but said nothing. "Sorry," Lars muttered when they'd pulled farther from the soldiers. "I needed to do something, or we might be there yet." He paused. "Should I take the oars now?"

Rosenqvist grunted, then barked a humorless laugh. "Not till we're out of sight. But then I'm done with rowing. After that it's you and the boy."

It wasn't though, for it was a long pull against the current, and he spelled each of them more than once. Meanwhile night came. Overcast. It seemed unlikely they'd spot the blazed spruce in the darkness, so they stopped when they saw a candlelit window in a farm house. The farmer there let them bed down in a hayshed, and they slept exhausted till they were wakened by lowing cows calling to be milked. With the farmer's family, they breakfasted sparsely on flatbread, cheese, and yesterday's buttermilk, then got into the boat again and pulled away upstream in the foggy, not quite freezing pre-dawn.

[It was late in the day, and getting dark, and the general's headquarters, still at the manorial farmhouse, was lit mainly by the fireplace. Von Gertten was with him. Longström came in, bringing Rosenqvist, Lars and Matts.]

"Your spies, general," Longström announced, "back from Trondheim. I brought them as soon as they arrived. They haven't eaten since breakfast."

The army hadn't either, of course. The general's gaze moved to Rosenqvist. "Indeed! What have you learned, lieutenant?"

"I made sketches of the work along the Nidelva. From the tower of the cathedral." He handed them to the general, who looked them over. "Also, we found a largely completed palisade at the neck, between the bastion and the town. Any forces climbing over the bastion will come immediately under fire again."

"Anything else?"

"A rumor. Corporal Skoogh was told that several Scottish ships had been there. And that they had come to take 'the Swedes' across to Scotland."

Armfelt grunted, but did not comment, then turned to Matts. "And what did you learn?"

Lars nudged the boy to answer. "That against the current, it is a long way to row from Trondheim to the army," Matts said.

Armfelt smiled just a little. "Ah. And did you have to row it alone?"

"No, general. The lieutenant and I rowed at first, when we left the dock, while Corporal Skoogh cursed us, as if he'd been drinking. Otherwise some Norwegian soldiers would have taken him into their army, or arrested us all. Afterward it was Corporal Skoogh and I who mostly rowed."

The general's eyebrows lifted a bit, but the slight smile remained. "Ah! I'm sure there's a story there." His gaze returned to Longström. "Take them out. They are to wait, in case I have further questions. Meanwhile have them fed."

They ate on a bench in the vestibule, where Matts fell asleep. He awoke when Captain Longström returned. "Lieutenant, corporal, report back to your units. Stentorp, you stay a bit. I have questions to ask you."

The lieutenant and Lars left, both wondering what those questions could be. Longström sat down on the bench, then spoke in an undertone. "Look at me, Matts. Something happened while you were gone, something that troubled you, and that you didn't tell the general. What was it?"

Matts lowered his voice to a whisper, and told Longström what had happened in the cathedral tower.

"Ah! Come outside with me."

They left. It was already freezing, and their exhalations made puffs of white. Dusk had faded into night, and beyond, to one side, small campfires dotted the fields, reflecting off ranks of canvas tents. "Ordinarily," Longström was saying, "to kill a civilian is against army regulations, whether churchman or anyone else. You know that; you've seen at least one man hanged for it. But the lieutenant was right in what he did. You are all three soldiers of the king, in a land ruled by the treacherous Dane, and as a spy you've done important and daring service to your king and your country. If the churchman had told what he saw, police and soldiers would have gone looking for you. You could not have completed your mission, and would probably have been caught and executed."

"I know, sir, but..."

"Did Lieutenant Rosenqvist explain that? Or Corporal Skoogh?"

"Neither, sir. I could see it for myself."

"But it still feels wicked to you. That a churchman was killed." The words came thoughtfully, more statement than question.

Matts slowed a step before answering. "Not as much now, sir."

"Good. Meanwhile I want you to talk with someone."

Minutes later they arrived at the small sharecropper's torp on which Longström's small company was billeted. He, with Lieutenant Björnsjö, Ensign Roström and the 1st sergeant shared the small log cabin with the young sharecropper and his family, while his men occupied the hay shed, barn, stable and smoke house. Outside the cabin, one of Longström's men stood guard, motionless, easy to miss against the dark cabin wall. His bayonet was fixed, his ears tuned to the night. He did not challenge his captain, whose figure and stride he recognized. Longström pushed open the door, and entered, Matts at his heels.

Inside, the cabin was lit dimly by the fire on the hearth. All eyes had turned to the two arrivals, and Matts' eyes took in a scene much like the stuga he'd grown up in in Värmland. The farmer's hard hands had been whittling peg-like teeth for a hay rake, but paused as the newcomers entered. As did the knitting needles in his wife's hands; a partly knit sock rested on her aproned lap. Nearby, a hand-carved and painted pull-bed cabinet held a sleeping infant. Three soldiers got to their feet from a bench, and saluted.

"Erkki," Longström said, "come outside for a few minutes."

Without pausing for his jacket, the tall 1st sergeant followed his captain and Matts outside, where Longström led them to a lean-to woodshed. There they seated themselves on sections of pine log awaiting splitting.

Longström spoke in Swedish rather than Finnish. "Sergeant Kivikoski, today Matts witnessed a killing. Of a priest. The priest had realized Rosenqvist was a spy, and was about to call out, so Rosenqvist strangled him. Matts realized the strangling was necessary, but it still troubles him, because the victim was a churchman. So of course I thought of you, who can explain to him about priests — that they are not special, no more than other men."

Erkki hadn't more than glimpsed Matts since Skalstuga, but he remembered him well. "Of course, captain." He thought for a few seconds before saying anything more, then turned his eyes to the boy. "Matts, what do you think makes a churchman special, beyond other people?"

Matts thought for a moment. "Because...because they do God's work. They are like God's...God's hired men. But they are more than that. He gives them the right, the duty, to tell us how to live. What to do."

Erkki groped for words, thoughts. It was difficult; he didn't believe in God. "How does a priest instruct people?"

"I...he talks about what is written in den Helige Skriften."

Erkki frowned, looking back to his boyhood, when he walked with his parents to church each Sunday, to sit through sermons, interminable harangues. To fight boredom, he actually listened, and even as a child found things to disagree with, silently picking the sermons apart. "In the eyes of God," he said, "every man is as good as he treats other people. Think back to your priest at home, where you came from. How did he treat his people?"

Matts looked back, remembering Pastor Sundberg, the only pastor he knew. "He was always kind."

This was not, Erkki thought, going very well. "Did he treat his bond folk well?... Did he knulla the house girls, do you suppose?"

Matts thought back again. "No." Then, "he only had two."

"Did either of them have a child while they were there?"

Reluctantly, "Yes, one of them. Marta."

"What did Marta look like."

"She was the prettiest girl in the parish. But she got married to Johan i Övretorp, because he was the father. Pastor Sundberg let her out of her contract."

Övre Torp. The "upper farm," far from the rectory then. Of course, Erkki thought. "Married her after the baby came?"

"I'm not sure, sir. But he married her because he was the father." By now, though, Matts was remembering his mother's tone of voice when she and grandfather spoke of it.

"Was Övretorp near the church?"

"No, it was the farthest farm up the creek. That's why it was named that."

"How would Johan have come to knulla a house girl so far from where he lived?"

"They could have done it at Midsommar, when the whole parish makes merry." But even as he said it, Matts remembered that the baby had come during harvest, not at winter's end.

"Was Johan a young man?" Priests with pretty house girls were known to arrange marriages with prosperous, usually older, widowed parishioners, for a fee or out of friendship. But torpers were reliably poor, and hardly chosen by priests as friends.

"Young? Kind of inbetween," Matts replied. "Maybe thirty. He had three children already."

Four children then, to be fed from a torp. Common enough, but hard. "Where was Johan's wife, that he was free to marry Marta?"

"His first wife had died. In childbirth. The baby died too."

Erkki grunted. "Such things are commonplace. You know how it sounds to me? The pastor had this pretty house girl and decided to take advantage of her. So he did, probably often, and got her with child. And to hide the fact, as best he could, he got her a husband, a man who needed a wife on the torp. I hope Johan is good to her. Meanwhile, in my experience, churchmen are no better than anyone else. Worse! Hypocrits! Some may be all right, but many are arrogant and overbearing. Many farmers are poor, and all laborers are, men who work their fingers to the bone. But priests? Never! Churchmen are greedy, and they never eat bark bread. They become priests so they don't have to work hard or live hard. And men who want to lord it over others are drawn to the priesthood, for the power."

Erkki had been watching Matt's face, especially his eyes. It was time, he decided, to end this conversation. "Priests are not like the Christ," he finished. "So do not grieve the churchman. Your lieutenant saved your lives." Erkki turned his gaze away then, his mouth somehow sour from the words it had spoken.

"Thank you, Erkki," Longström said, and got to his feet. Matts got up too, and all three left the woodshed, Erkki striding off to the cabin. When the 1st sergeant had gone inside, Longström turned to Matts again. "What do you think about churchmen now, lad?"

"I think...I think that Pastor Sundberg is a good man... He may have laid with Marta Jonsdotter. Maybe even if she didn't want to, but gave in because she was afraid. But I think he tries to do good. If he did what the 1st sergeant thinks he did, he at least tried to help her out afterward."

"Ah. I suspect you are right about him; I trust your judgment." More each time I speak with you, he added to himself. "Also it is good to be loyal." These words drew Matts' eyes to his. "But it is also good not to close your eyes to the truth. Erkki too is loyal, loyal to me, to Finland, and to his friends. And you are his friend. I know, because he speaks well of you. He wanted to help you see the truth: that churchmen are not the elect of God. In the sight of God they are no more than other men, and perhaps have more temptations."

Longström turned, looking through the night across the campfire-dotted field, wondering what Pastor Muus would think of all this, waiting for sleep in his bed in Gävle. "Can you find your tent from here, Matts?"

"Yes, captain."

"Good. Then go. Get your rest."

Longström turned and went back into the stuga, the cabin, while Matts jogged off toward the campfires.

The sentry watched him leave, and wondered what Erkki had said to give rise to what he'd just overheard. The captain's a strange man, he thought. But a good one.