Grotesquely she bobbed in an attempt at a curtsey. “The farm of Hew Folley, noble sir.”
“And where is this Folley?” Kimber asked as if he expected the missing landsman to spring up before him.
“He is dead, sir. Murdered by outlaws. I thought that was why- But come in, noble sirs, come in—” She waddled back a step leaving the entrance to the kitchen open.
The rich smell of food caught at Dard’s throat, until, for a second, he was almost nauseated. There were thick dishes on the stained table, and congealed grease, a fragment of bread, a half cup of herb tea, marked the remains of a late breakfast.
Without answering the woman’s half-question Kimber seated himself on the nearest chair and with an outstretched arm swept the used dishes from before him. Dard dropped down opposite to the pilot, thankful for the support the hard wooden seat gave his trembling body.
“You have food, woman?” Kimber demanded. “Get it. We have been walking over this forsaken country for hours. Is there a messenger here we can send into town? Our ’copter is down and we must have the repair crew.”
She was busy at the stove, breaking eggs, real eggs into a greasy skillet.
“Food, yes, noble sirs. But a messenger-since my man is dead I have only the slaves, and they are under lock and key. There is no one to send.”
“You have no son?” Kimber helped himself to a piece of bread.
Her nervous smirk stretched to a smile. “Yes, noble sir, I have a son. But only this month he was chosen by the House of the Olive Branch. He is now in training for your own service, noble sir.”