When Simon gives me our Lord’s request, a familiar vertigo settles upon me, like the illusion we all see when we close our eyes and rub them, a glittering aerial pan over the thick lines and circles of a monumental crystal labyrinth. It is sickening and altogether terrifying, but dazzling too, as if it contained untold riches, as if anything is possible, as our Lord insists it is.

“The Lord has heard the amassed pilgrims,” says Simon, “and demanded we raise funds to feed and clothe them.”

“How?”

“It doesn’t matter how. It’s His will, so it’s ours.”

In the coming days, at His insistence, we will not only feed and clothe the pilgrims but provide each of them with enough ducats to eat for a month, or buy a cow, or open a shop. And when the episode is over, that steepling sensation will return, and I will feel closer to God than ever.

But not here, now, in the seconds after Simon’s deputation, with my mind running towards many solutions. Simon sees I have no more to say – he knows this look – so he turns and walks back through the open door in the side of the fortress, which one of the old soldiers slams shut after him.

I used to wonder why Simon was in there with the Lord when I have known him longer and can write, until I realised Simon’s rougher talents, forged on battlefronts, make him better suited to the politics and personalities of prison. So it is with choices like this that the Lord helps me see the true path for myself.

In Częstochowa, Pietyr says he would threaten the life of anyone who brought him such a request, as he won’t be made a fool of by anyone. But, he says, he knows this is the Lord’s will because I am the messenger and – he smirks at this – he knows I would never deceive anyone. The others are silent and glower at me as they leave.

I ask Natalia if she still has any of her father’s gold. Bitter fury pours quietly out of her, how I have ruined her life, how I have taken everything she has, how the last strands linking her to life before me are about to be severed. Then Ada interrupts, screaming for her breast. Once she has her latched, Natalia sighs and says what she’s supposed to say. “It’s His will, so it’s ours.”

We all agree we cannot feed half the pilgrims and clothe the other half. It would be wiser to arrive with enough for everyone. But these people are cold and starving and may perish without a miracle, so we’ll provide one in three days. Somehow, it doesn’t occur to anyone to feed everyone one day, then clothe them the next.

Pietyr gathers thugs and stops carriages on the road to Warsaw. Tybald’s wife goes to whoring. Mateusz and others pawn yet more items, as I do, netting a minor sum with Natalia’s father’s gold. Rich families in town have no use for my services as a stenographer, so I settle for promissory notes, which I solicit well into the night on both days. The rich are openly disgusted by me and my tan robe, and I have to submit to an inquisition behind every door I enter. But they seem amused by the pilgrims, and more so by the true believers, so I gather enough to ensure our family’s contribution.

When we regroup at the end of the second day, we find we have brought in far more than we expected. That same dizziness takes hold of me. To my surprise, it is Pietyr who breaks the silence and suggests we give it all to the pilgrims and keep none for ourselves. I see the labyrinth flying up at me in magnificent detail, and then it disappears as talk turns to the contents of the gruel.

The clothes are easy enough; we simply give what we no longer need. Mateusz wheels them to the grounds in front of the fortress in a large barrow, where the pilgrims watch him like a housecat stalking a mouse until he begins his speech, at which point they set upon him and the clothes. He crawls to safety covered in wounds and bruises. Pietyr and Tybald set up their cauldrons nearby and look at me. I fear the pilgrims will tear each other apart before they eat.

At this, Simon appears from within the fortress and moves through the crowd, tossing remarks judiciously and resolving any disagreements with a sharp word here, a gesture there. He leads the pilgrims to Pietyr and Tybald and tells everyone how the next part will go, and they listen. I take my place next to the pots.

The pilgrims glare at me as they pass supping their ration. I give each a note worth hundreds and tell them it is the Lord’s will and their true path to the light. It occurs to me that the stronger among them may take others’ notes by force. But then, as the Lord would say, unfortunates simply lack the necessary will.

Just as the crowd’s mood is settling, a murmur goes up, then a shout, then a cheer. It seems one of the pilgrims has glimpsed a shadow move across the high window where the Lord is said to have his rooms. Soon they are all cheering and advancing on the fortress, their faces open and smiling, their bellies digesting.

Pietyr and Tybald clear away the empty pots, and I am left alone. The crowd screams as one, pilgrims slapping each other’s backs and dancing. A haze settles over my vision, and then it seems the pilgrims are arranged like that giant illusory labyrinth, and I feel as if I might collapse into the mud. I think: this is the power of the Lord.