morning hid their books from the monks of Evesham as they sang
in choir was but a presage of the gloom which fell on the religious houses.
From Ramsey, from Evesham, from St. Alban's rose the same cry of havoc and
rapine. But the plunder of monk and burgess was little to the vast sentence
of confiscation which the mere fact of rebellion was held to have passed on
all the adherents of Earl Simon. To "disinherit" these of their lands was
to confiscate half the estates of the landed gentry of England; but the
hotter royalists declared them disinherited, and Henry was quick to lavish
their lands away on favourites and foreigners. The very chroniclers of
their party recall the pillage with shame. But all thought of resistance
lay hushed in a general terror. Even the younger Simon "saw no other rede"
than to release his prisoners. His army, after finishing its meal, was
again on its march to join the Earl when the news of his defeat met it,
heralded by a strange darkness that, rising suddenly in the north-west and
following as it were on Edward's track, served to shroud the mutilations
and horrors of the battle-field. The news was soon fatally confirmed. Simon
himself could see from afar his father's head borne off on a spear-point to
be mocked at Wigmore. But the pursuit streamed away southward and westward
through the streets of Tewkesbury, heaped with corpses of the panic-struck
Welshmen whom the townsmen slaughtered without pity; and there was no
attack as the little force fell back through the darkness and big
thunder-drops in despair upon Kenilworth. "I may hang up my axe," are the
bitter words which a poet attributes to their leader, "for feebly have I
gone"; and once within the castle he gave way to a wild sorrow, day after
day tasting neither meat nor drink.

[Sidenote: Edward]

He was roused into action again by news of the shameful indignities which
the Marcher Lords had offered to the body of the great Earl before whom
they had trembled so long. The knights around him broke out at the tidings
in a passionate burst of fury, and clamoured for the blood of Richard of
Cornwall and his son, who were prisoners in the castle. But Simon had
enough nobleness left to interpose. "To God and him alone was it owing"
Richard owned afterwards, "that I was snatched from death." The captives
were not only saved, but set free. A Parliament had been called at
Winchester at the opening of September, and its mere assembly promised a