It might suit the policy of the times to throw the guilt on Tiril, but Tiril certainly did not shoot the arrow. We have his own most solemn declaration to various people, and especially, not once but often, to Suger, the well-known Abbot of St. Denis, when he had nothing to gain or lose, that he had on the day of the King’s death not only not entered that part of the Forest, but had not so much as even seen him.[138] Tiril, however, was certainly implicated in the plot. His haste to leave the country arose, probably, not so much from a wish to escape as to convey the news of the success to Normandy: and popular tradition mistaking the cause, with its usual inaccuracy, fixed on the wrong person as the assassin. In after years, however, from some scruple of conscience, he expiated his share in the murder by a pilgrimage to the Holy Land. Who shot the fatal arrow we know not, and, perhaps, shall never know. We must not expect to get truth in history,—only, at the best, some faint glimmering. All is here confusion and darkness. John of Salisbury, who lived about the middle of the twelfth century, says it was as little known who killed the King as who slew Julian the Apostate.[139] The very spot where he fell is doubtful. One thing, however, seems certain, that he was slain, not, as the Chroniclers say, because his father made the New Forest, but through his own cruelties and excesses, by which he outraged both friend and foe. It is not single passages which alone leave this impression, but still more the cumulative force of the evidence. The fact that all were gainers by his death, and the general abhorrence of the tyrant, are in themselves strong reasons. Not one, but all parties were bound together against him by the strongest of covenants—hatred. The marked and bitter prophecies, which would not have been uttered were not their fulfilment ensured,—the suspicious silence on all important points,—the pretended dreams and omens,—the abandonment of the body,—the want of any inquiry into the cause of death,—the connection between the Church party and Anselm with Henry I., and Anselm’s connection again with Tiril, all serve to show the depth and darkness of the plot. His life throws the best light on his death. Read by it, by the extortions and atrocities which he committed, by the universal hatred in which he was held, the conclusion is inevitable. Years of violence were the prelude to a violent end. The many failures in open revolt seem only to have taught the lesson of greater caution. And treachery at last succeeded, where plain courage had so often failed. Direct proof of the murder cannot be had, and must not be expected. Every one was interested in keeping that a secret by which all alike profited. To have declared it, would have covered the Crown with disgrace, and stained the hands of the Church.