Sacred Haven of Debauchery

Yes, that's exactly what I meant, the women.

The horse, riddled with arrows, lay dying on its side. It thrashed its large head, its eyes rolling wildly above the pink foam oozing from its nostrils. Nearby lay one of the villagers, also pierced with arrows, as if struck down in flight, and next to him, in a pool of blood, lay Father George. The mother lay on the horse's body, as if on some indecent bed. Her copper hair was spread out around her; she was fending off four men who were trying to hold her by the arms and legs. Her chilled, marble-white naked body was covered in scratches and bruises from their rough hands. Her face was contorted. Her teeth were bared and bloodied. Her piercing blue eyes flashed with lightning. She didn't see Matthias, and although a part of him longed for those wild blue eyes to find him, he understood that if his mother knew he was there, that knowledge would rob her of her strength to resist, and that fierce resistance was the mother's last gift to her son.
One of them struck her on the head, shouted in her ear, and she turned and spat in his face—her spittle was red with blood. A fifth man knelt between her legs, having pulled down his trousers. And they were all shouting—at each other, at her—in their piercing, unfamiliar language. One of them was picking his nose with his finger. They were raping a woman dragged half-asleep from her bed, but their movements were like those of shepherds pulling a cow stuck in a bog: they waved their arms, cursed, shouted encouragement, and gave advice; they were not aware of the evil they were doing, and their faces showed no shame or pity. The scoundrel who was kneeling lost patience because she was pressing her knee against his chest and preventing him from entering her. He pulled a knife from his boot, pushed her back, aimed, and plunged the knife into her heart. No one tried to stop him. No one protested. The mother froze, her head thrown back. Matthias wanted to cry, but all the air froze in his chest. The scoundrel threw the knife away, reached down to his crotch, inserted something hard into her body, and began to move back and forth. Someone must have said something funny, because they all burst out laughing.
Matthias held back the tears he didn't deserve. He couldn't save his sisters. He hadn't lived up to his father's expectations. His mother's body was left to be defiled by the beasts. He alone survived, homeless, powerless, and lost. He came to, realizing that he had plunged the tip of a dagger into his palm. The blood seemed especially bright compared to the dirty crust that covered his fingers. The pain was real and sharp, and it cleared his head. His mother had denied them what they wanted even more than her flesh—her defeat and humiliation. Her defiled pride. The desire to be near her soul overwhelmed Matthias. The desire to die and, in death, find unity with her, a connection that seemed more precious to him than life itself. He pressed the dagger against his hand so that it couldn't be seen. Feeling no hatred—although the blade was still warm, his blood was cold—he surrendered to the cruelty, demanding his share.