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Summary
Becket permits himself a small smile and tries not to squint against the sunlight that is blinding him. ‘I’d be… honoured if my prince would allow me – as his Chancellor – to take some trifling matters off his mind.’
‘Ah, I see,’ Henry says, letting his chin drop onto his chest. ‘You’re still looking for your honour, that slippery quality which, I might add, so few Normans possess.’ Another glance at Becket. ‘Have you found a way to fill that void yet?’
