From History to You
SPOILER ALERT: This post discusses a major plot element from Drawn to the Beast. If you haven't read the book yet and want to discover Guyon's secret along with Cicele, you might want to save this post for after you finish reading!
Night Demons or Disease? Medieval Understanding of Nocturnal Epilepsy.
When I was researching my second novel, Drawn to the Beast, I stumbled upon a fascinating medical mystery from the 12th century: how did medieval people understand seizures that happened only at night?
My hero, Guyon, suffers from what we would now call nocturnal epilepsy—violent seizures that strike only while he sleeps, triggered by a head injury he sustained years earlier in the tilt yard. In the 12th century, this would have been a terrifying and shameful condition, particularly for a warrior who needed to project strength and inspire confidence in his men.
The “Falling Sickness”
Medieval Europeans called epilepsy the “falling sickness” (morbus caducus in Latin). But when those seizures happened at night—when a person was at their most vulnerable, alone in darkness—the supernatural explanations became even more potent.
Imagine: you’re a medieval peasant, and you hear your neighbor thrashing and screaming in the night. You see them the next morning with no memory of what happened, perhaps with wounds they can’t explain. What would you think?
Most people believed it was demonic possession. The church taught that demons could enter the body and cause these violent episodes. For someone like Guyon—a nobleman and warrior—this diagnosis would have been socially catastrophic. If word got out that he was “demon-possessed,” he could lose his position, his lands, even his life.
Eastern Medicine to the Rescue
But here’s where it gets interesting: at the same time superstition dominated European thinking, Arabic and Persian physicians were developing a much more sophisticated understanding of epilepsy.
Scholars like Avicenna (Ibn Sina, 980-1037 CE) and other Iranian medical writers understood that epilepsy was a disease, not demonic possession. Their medical texts, which were gradually filtering into Europe through trade routes and returning Crusaders, described epilepsy as a disorder of the brain.
In Drawn to the Beast, Father Orrick—the educated castle chaplain—has access to these Eastern medical texts. He explains to my heroine Cicele that “the Iranian scholars who teach that the falling sickness is a disease, and not because of demons.”
This wasn’t fiction on my part. By the mid-12th century, some educated European clergy and physicians were indeed beginning to question the demonic explanation and look to Eastern medical knowledge for better answers.
The Treatment: Accidentally Keto?
Here’s the part that absolutely fascinated me: the dietary recommendations that medieval physicians borrowed from Eastern medicine bear a striking resemblance to the ketogenic diet that modern doctors use to treat epilepsy in children.
In my novel, Father Orrick treats a young boy with epilepsy by incorporating “meat in his diet”—advising the mother to add more protein and reduce other foods. This wasn’t random. Medieval Arabic medical texts recommended diets rich in meats and fats while limiting grains and sweets for epilepsy patients.
Sound familiar? The ketogenic diet (high fat, adequate protein, very low carbohydrate) has been used to treat epilepsy since the 1920s, and it’s still prescribed today, especially for children whose seizures don’t respond to medication. The diet forces the body to burn fats rather than carbohydrates, which somehow reduces seizure frequency.
Medieval physicians didn’t understand why this worked—they had no concept of ketosis or brain metabolism. But through careful observation, they noticed that patients on meat-heavy, low-grain diets often had fewer seizures.
It’s one of those beautiful moments in history where empirical observation led to a treatment that actually worked, even if the underlying mechanism wouldn’t be understood for another 800 years.
Living with “Night Demons”
For Guyon, the nocturnal nature of his seizures adds another layer of isolation. He can’t share a bed with his wife because he might hurt her during an episode. He has no memory of the seizures afterward—just the testimony of his servant Thomas, who tells him he “screamed like an animal before weeping like a babe,” or that “his body trembled and he usually pissed himself.”
The shame is crushing. In a society that valued martial prowess and physical strength above almost everything else, this loss of control would have been devastating.
But Cicele, armed with Father Orrick’s teachings about Eastern medicine, comes to understand that her husband isn’t cursed or possessed—he’s injured. The head trauma from his fall in the tilt yard years ago damaged something in his brain, and now he suffers seizures. It’s a medical condition, not a moral failing.
Why This Matters for the Story
The nocturnal epilepsy isn’t just a plot device in Drawn to the Beast—it’s integral to understanding Guyon’s character. He calls himself “the Beast” (la Bête) and believes he’s genuinely monstrous, unworthy of love. He’s internalized the medieval belief that his condition makes him cursed.
Cicele’s journey to understanding his condition mirrors the broader medieval shift from superstition toward medical science. She has to overcome her own ingrained fear of “demons” and trust in the new knowledge filtering in from the East.
It’s a Beauty and the Beast retelling, but the “beast” isn’t cursed by magic—he’s wounded by war and traumatized by a medical condition he doesn’t understand. And the “beauty” doesn’t break the curse with love—she breaks through his shame with knowledge and acceptance.
The Bigger Picture
Writing historical romance gives me the opportunity to explore these fascinating intersections between medieval medicine, cultural belief, and human resilience. The 12th century was a time of tremendous intellectual ferment—Eastern medical knowledge was flowing into Europe, challenging long-held beliefs and offering new ways of understanding the human body.
Father Orrick represents those enlightened medieval thinkers who were willing to question superstition and look for better explanations. He risks being called a blasphemer by other clergy, but he can’t ignore what he’s learned: that what looks like demonic possession is actually a treatable disease.
For Guyon and Cicele, this shift from supernatural to natural explanations becomes deeply personal. Their ability to build a life together depends on Cicele’s willingness to learn, and Guyon’s courage to be vulnerable despite his condition.
And yes, there’s a happy ending—complete with Guyon finally sleeping peacefully through the night with his wife in his arms, knowing that if the “night demons” come, she’ll be there to soothe and protect him.
Drawn to the Beast is available now on Amazon and through Draft2Digital (Apple Books, Kobo, Barnes & Noble, Google Play). If you’re interested in medieval romance that takes the history seriously—including the fascinating evolution of medieval medicine—I hope you’ll give it a try.
And if you’ve read it and want to know more about the historical details behind the story, that’s exactly what this blog series is for! Next month I’ll be diving into another piece of medieval life that surprised me during my research.
Until then, happy reading!
Sending hugs 🌺❤️
Cate
Historical Note: While I’ve dramatized Guyon’s story for romance purposes, the medical details are grounded in genuine 12th-century sources. Avicenna’s Canon of Medicine (completed around 1025 CE) was indeed circulating in Europe by the mid-12th century, and his descriptions of epilepsy as a brain disorder rather than demonic possession were revolutionary for the time. The dietary recommendations I describe are drawn from medieval Arabic medical texts that were translated into Latin during this period.