Sir Trefor saw a maiden in a glade,
who lay upon a bed of softest down;
it seemed as though the spiders spun her gown,
in finely figured silk was she arrayed.
Above her, trees took care to bend their boughs
that on her never fell a drop of rain;
and yet, whilst lying there, she seemed in pain –
and this, somehow, by reason of her vows.
Then, gasping, Trefor saw her lovely wings
of gossamer, as was the wont of Fay;
yet none were e’er so beautiful as they,
none of which any mortal poet sings.
This surely was Aurorielle the fair;
now sadly captive, held in Robert’s lair.
On stolen throne there lived a lord at ease,
enchanted lands made rich by fairy power.
The harvesters worked every waking hour,
for crops grew swift and strong without disease.
Four children were Aurorielle's by right,
but Robert broke their bodies on the sward;
their precious blood was all in mortar poured,
and round about he raised the works of night.
The truth was made a pris’ner in the land;
if tidings ever came to Arthur’s court
of all the grievous evil Robert wrought,
his tyranny could never hope to stand.
Sir Trefor knew he viewed the land in which
the summer had been trapped, to make it rich.
His vision turned towards the glade wherein
his body lay, beside the patient horse;
four tiny mounds were by the water’s course,
and in his heart, he knew who lay therein.
Then, with a start, their ghostly shades he saw;
four little children, ragged, lost and lone.
The kindly fairies’ love did not atone;
their graves cried out to settle Robert's score.
The king did all he could to soothe their sighs;
Aurorielle’s sad children he consoled
by giving each a season she’d controlled;
but none can be her equal ‘neath the skies.
So each, as best they can, fulfils her role,
until their blood set free release their soul.