Try to approach Lydia in the kitchen

A serving wench bustles out of the door to the kitchen, her face flushed and glistening with sweat. She has a steamy pile of delicious meats on her tray, along with several cold mugs of ale. Before the door swings open behind her, you catch a glimpse of the woman running in the kitchen. Lydia stands a head taller than you, with chestnut hair pulled back in a long braid. Her face, once probably stunningly beautiful, now seems tired in her middle age.

She is a woman of substantial curves, a plentiful woman, and no part of her body is more plentiful than her breasts, which strain her peasant blouse to the absolute limits of the laces. Her huge breasts jiggle and bounce atop a bodice meant to conceal extra weight around her midsection. You've never seen such large breasts. The instant before the door closes, the woman catches you staring at her and a scowl appears on her face.

It takes all of your courage, buoyed by the men undressing you with their eyes, to push the door back open and step into the kitchen.

"Just who are you?!" she roars. "Stepping into my kitchen uninvited! How dare you?"

"S-sister Sabine," you manage. "From the abbey at White Rock."

"The abbey? The abbey?! Look at you, dressed in gauze, your bits showing through. Indecent!" She grabs your gown in one big hand. "You're a harlot come to fuck my customers. Has my no-good husband put his cock up you yet?"

"He wanted to," you blurt.

Her hazel eyes go wide with rage. You realize you've said something terrible and you brace for even greater fury. Instead, a smile cracks through Lydia's anger. She begins to laugh and even releases your gown.

"Oh, my, of course he did." She pats your shoulder. "Well, what is then? Tell me before something burns on the stove. What do you want?"

You give Lydia the shortest version, leaving out the daemons and focusing on the attack and the need to reach Gerlanga. You end with your plea for charity.

"Well, I have some dry clothes that might fit you," she says. "In a trunk. From my, ah, bawdier days. As for the horse and such, I will give you a hot meal and some clothes, see to your horse, if you help me in the kitchen and promise to rub my feet after."

"Your feet?" you raise an eyebrow.

"Yes, yes, are you deaf!?" She turns her back on you, dealing with something on the stove. "I'm on them all day and my husband is too busy chasing waitresses. After the meal service, you rub my feet. And do it well! Do we have a deal?"

Rubbing this woman's feet and helping her cook seems to be the best offer you are likely to get tonight.